LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AME 



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AMERICAN POEMS 



LONGFELLOW: WHITTIER : BRYANT 
HOLMES: LOWELL: EMERSON 



WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
AND NOTES 



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BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, OSGOOD AND COMPANY 

(2r^c EiiJcifitlJc Prefifi, Cambrtliffc 

1879 



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Copyright, 1858, 
By henry WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW. 

Copyright, 1850, 1856, 1858, 1800, 1861, 1864, 1806, 1S6S, 1875, and 1875 
Br JOHN GREENLEAF WUITTIER. 

Copyright, 1864, 
By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Copyright, 1875 and 1878, 
By OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

Copyright, 1848, 1868, 1874, 1875, and 1876, 
Br JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Copyright, 1862 and 1867, 
Br RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Copyright, 1879, 
By HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & CO. 



All rif/kts reserved. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED DY 

n. 0. HOUGBTON AND COMPANY. 



PREFACE. 



This volume of American Poems has been pre- 
pared with special reference to the interests of 
young people, both at school and at home. Read- 
ing-books and 23opular collections of poetry contain 
many of the shorter and well-known poems of the 
authors represented in this book, but the scope 
of such collections does not generally permit the 
introduction of the longer poems. It is these 
poems, and, with a slight exception, these only, 
that make up thi^ volume. The power to read and 
enjoy poetry is one of the finest results of educa- 
tion, but it cannot be attained by exclusive at- 
tention to short poems; there is involved in this 
power the capacity for sustained attention, the re- 
maining with the poet upon a long fliglit of imag- 
ination, the exercise of the mind in bolder sweep 
of thought. Moreover, the familiarity with long 
poems 25roduces greater power of appreciation when 
the shorter ones are taken up. It is much to take 



iv PREFA CE. 

deep breaths ot the upper air, to fill the lungs 
with a good draught of poetry, and unless one ac- 
companies the poet in his longer reaches, he fails 
to know what poetry can give him. 

In making the selection for this volume a very 
simple principle has been followed. It was desired 
to make the book an agreeable introduction to the 
pleasures of poetry, and, by confining it to Ameri- 
can poetry of the highest order, to give young peo- 
ple in America the most natural acquaintance with 
literature. These poets are our interpreters. All 
but one are still living, so that the poetry is con- 
temporaneous and appeals through familiar forms ; 
as far as possible narrative poems have been chosen, 
and, in the arrangement of authors, regard has 
been had to degrees of difficulty, the more involved 
and subtle forms of poetry following the simpler 
and more direct. Throughout, the book has been 
conceived in a spirit which welcomes poetry as a 
noble delight, not as a grammatical exercise or 
elocutionary task. 

With the same intention the critical apparatus 
has been treated in a literary rather than in a ped- 
agogical way. The editor has imagined himself 
reading aloud, and stopping now and then to explain 
a phrase, to clear an allusion, or to give a sugges- 
tion as to similar forms in literature. Since sev- 
eral of the poems are semi-historical in character, 



PREFACE. V 

tlie liistoric basis has been carefully jiointed out, 
and hints given for furtlier pursuit of the subjects 
treated. "Words, though obsolete or archaic, are 
not explained when the dictionary account is suffi- 
cient. A brief sketch of the author precedes each 
section. 

It is Strongly hoped that the book will be ac- 
cepted by schools as a contribution to that very 
irajiortant work in which teachers are engaged, of 
giving to their pupils an interest in the best litera- 
ture, a love for pure and engaging forms of art. 
If, with all our drill and practice in reading dur- 
ing the years of school-life, children leave their 
schools with no taste for good reading, and no 
familiarity with those higher forms of literature 
that have grown out of the very life which they 
are living, it must be questioned whether the time 
given to reading has been most wisely employed. 

August, 1879. 



CONTENTS. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. page 

biographical sketch 1 

Evangeline : a Tale of Acadie . . 5 

The Courtship of Miles Standish . . 102 
The Building of the Ship . . . 172 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 188 

Snow-Bound : A Winter Idyl . . 191 

Among the Hills 217 

Mabel Martin 235 

Cobbler Keezar's Vision .... 248 

Barclay of Ury 255 

The Two Rabbis 261 

The Gift of Tritemius .... 204: 
The Brother of Mercy .... 260 
The Prophecy of Samuel Sewall . 269 

Maud Muller 276 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 282 

Sella 287 

The Little People of ihe Snow . . 305 



viii CONTENTS. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

BIOaUAFHlCAL SKETCH 318 

GHANDMOTHEU'S StOKY .... 321 

The Schooi.-Boy 333 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

biographical sketch 348 

The Vision of Sik Launfal . . . 352 
Under the Willows . . . „ 365 

Under the Old Elm 378 

Agassiz 394 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

biographical sketch 416 

The Adirondacs 419 

The Titmouse 431 

Monadnoc 435 

APPENDIX. 

In the Labokatoky with Agassiz • ■ . 451 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



H 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

ENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was boru 
in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. He 
was a classmate of Hawthorne at Bowdoin College, 
graduating there in the class of 1825. He began 
the study of law in the office of his father, Hon. 
Stephen Longfellow ; but receiving shortly the 
appointment of professor of modern languages at 
Bowdoin, he devoted himself after that to litera- 
ture, and to teaching in connection with literature. 
Before beginning his work at Bowdoin he in- 
creased his qualifications by travel and study in 
Europe, where he stayed three years. Upon his re- 
turn he gave his lectures on modern languages and 
literature at the college, and wrote occasionally 
for the North American Review and other period- 
icals. The first volume which he published was 
an Essay on the Moral and Devotional Poetry of 
Spain, accompanied by translations from Spanish 
verse. This was issued in 1833, but has not been 
kept in print as a separate work. It appears as 
a chapter in Outre-Mer, a reflection of his Euro- 



2 LONGFELLOW. 

pean life and travel, the first of his prose-writings. 
In 1835 he was invited to succeed Mr. George 
Ticknor as professor of modern languages and 
literature at Harvard College, and again went to 
Europe for preparatory study, giving especial at- 
tention to Switzerland and the Scandinavian coun- 
tries. He held his professorship until 1854, but 
has continued ever since to live in Cambridge, oc- 
cupying a mansion-house known from a former 
occupant as the Craigie House, and also as Wash- 
ington's headquarters, that general having so used 
it while organizing the army that held Boston in 
siege at the beginning of the Revolution. Everett, 
Sparks, and Worcester, the lexicographer, at one 
time or another lived in this house, and here Long- 
fellow has written most of his works. In 1839 
appeared Hyperion, a Romance, which, with more 
narrative form than Outre-Mer, like that gave the 
results of a poet's entrance into the riches of the 
Old World life. In the same year was published 
Voices of the Night, a little volume containing 
chiefly poems and translations which had been 
printed separately in periodicals. The Psalm of 
Life, perhaps the best known of Longfellow's short 
poems, was in this volume, and here too were The 
Beleaguered City and Footsteps of Angels. Ballads, 
and other Poems and Poems on Slavery appeared 
in 1 842 ; 77ie Spanish Student, a play in three acts, 
in 1843 ; TJie Belfry of Bruges and other Poems in 
1846 ; Evangeline in 1847 ; Kavanagh, A Tale, in 
prose, in 1849. Beside the various volumes com- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 3 

prising short poems, the list of Mr. Longfellow's 
works includes The Golden Legend, Tlie Song of 
Hiawatha, The Courtship of lliles Standish, Tales 
of a Wayside Inn, The New England Tragedies, . 
and a translation of Dante's Divina Commedia. 
Mr. Longfellow's literary life began in his college 
days, and every year still witnesses new poems 
by him. A classification of his poems and longer 
works would be an interesting task, and would help 
to disclose the wide range of his sympathy and 
taste ; a collection of the metres which he has used 
would show the versatility of his art, and similar 
studies would lead one to discover the many coun- 
tries and ages to which he has gone for subjects. 
It would not be difficult to gather from the volume 
of Longfellow's poems hints of personal experi- 
ence, that biography of the heart which is of more 
worth to us than any record, however full, of ex- 
ternal change and adventure. Such hints may be 
found, for example, in the early lines, To the River 
Charles, which may be compared with his recent 
Three Friends of Mine, iv., v. ; in ^ Gleam of Sun- 
shine, To a Child, The Day is Done, The Fire of 
Driftwood, Resignation, The Open Window, The 
Ladder of St. Augustine, My Lost Youth, The Chil- 
dren's Hour, Weariness, and other poems ; not that 
we are to take all sentiments and statements made 
in the first person as the poet's, for often the form 
of the poem is so far dramatic that the poet is as- 
suming a character not necessarily his own, but the 
recurrence of certain strains, joined with personal 



4 LONGFELLOW. 

allusions, helps one to penetrate the slight veil 
with which the poet, here as elsewhere, half con- 
ceals and haK reveals himself. The friendly as- 
sociations of the poet may also be discovered in 
several poems directly addressed to persons or dis- 
tinctly allusive of them, and the reader will find 
it pleasant to construct the companionship of the 
poet out of such j)oems as The Herons of Elm- 
wood, To William JE. CJianning, The Fiftieth Birth- 
day of Agassiz, To Charles Sumner, the Prelude to 
Tales of a Wayside Inn, Haiothorne, and other 
poems. An interesting study of Mr. Longfellow's 
writings will be found in a paper by W. D. How- 
ells, in the North American Review, vol. civ 



I. 

EVANGELINE : A TALE OF ACADIE. 

HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION. 

[The country now known as Nova Scotia, and 
called formerly Acadie by the French, was in the 
hands of the French and English by turns until the 
year 1713, when, by the Peace of Utrecht, it was 
ceded by France to Great Britain, and has ever 
since remained in the possession of the English. 
But in 1713 the inhabitants of the peninsula were 
mostly French farmers and fishermen, living about 
Minas Basin and on AnnajDolis River, and the Eng- 
lish government exercised only a nominal control 
over them. It was not until 1749 that the English 
themselves began to make settlements in the coun- 
try, and that year they laid the foundations of the 
town of Halifax. A jealousy soon sprang up be- 
tween the English and French settlers, which was 
deepened by the great conflict which was impend- 
ing between the two mother countries ; for the 
treaty of peace at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, which 
confirmed the English title to Nova Scotia, was 
scarcely more than a truce between the two powers 
which had been struggling for ascendency since the 
beginning of the century. The French engaged in 
a long controversy with the English respecting the 



6 LONGFELLOW. 

boundaries of Acadie, which had been defined by the 
treaties in somewhat general terms, and intrigues 
were carried on with the Indians, who were gen- 
erally in symjjathy with the French, for the annoy- 
ance of the English settlers. The Acadians were 
allied to the French by blood and by religion, but 
they claimed to have the rights of neutrals, and that 
these rights had been granted to them by previous 
English officers of the crown. The one point of 
special dispute was the oath of allegiance demanded 
of the Acadians by the English. This they refused 
to take, except in a form modified to excuse them 
from bearing arms against tlie French. The de- 
mand was repeatedly made, and evaded with con- 
stant ingenuity and persistency. Most of the Aca- 
dians were probably simple-minded and peaceful 
people who desired only to live undisturbed upon 
their farms ; but there were some restless spirits, 
especially among the young men, who compromised 
the reputation of the community, and all were very 
much under the influence of their priests, some of 
wliom made no secret of their bitter hostility to the 
English, and of their dete/mination to use every 
means to be rid of them. 

As the E^nglish interests grew and the critical re- 
lations between the two counti'ies approached open 
warfare, the question of how to deal with the Aca- 
dian problem became the commanding one of the 
colony. There were some wlio coveted the rich 
farms of the Acadians ; there were some who were 
inspired by religious hatred ; but the prevailing 



EVANGELINE. 7 

spirit was one of fear for themselves from the near 
presence of a community which, calling itself neu- 
tral, might at any time offer a convenient ground 
for hostile attack. Yet to require these people to 
withdraw to Canada or Louisburg would be to 
strengthen the hands of the French, and make 
these neutrals determined enemies. The colony 
finally resolved, without consulting the home gov- 
ernment, to remove the Acadians to other parts of 
North America, distributing them through the col- 
onies in such a way as to preclude any concert 
amongst the scattered families by which they 
should return to Acadia. To do this required 
quick and secret prepai'ations. There were at the 
service of the English governor a number of New 
England troops, brought thither for the capture of 
the forts lying in the debatable land about the 
head of the Bay of Fundy. These were under the 
command of Lieutenant-Colonel John Winslow, of 
Massachusetts, a great-grandson of Governor Ed- 
ward Winslow of Plymouth, and to this gentleman 
and Captain Alexander Murray was intrusted the 
task of removal. They were instructed to use 
stratagem, if possible, to bring together the various 
families, but to prevent any from escajjing to the 
woods. On the 2d of September, 1755, Winslow 
issued a written order, addressed to the inhabitants 
of Grand-Pre, Minas, River Canard, etc., " as well 
ancient as young men and lads," — a proclamation 
summoning all the males to attend him in the 
church at Grand-Pre on the 5th instant, to hear a 



8 LONGFELLOW. 

commnnication which the governor had sent. As 
there had been negotiations respecting the oath of 
allegiance, and much discussion as to the with- 
drawal of the Acadians from the country, though 
none as to their removal and dispersal, it was un- 
derstood that this was an important meeting, and 
upon the day named four hundred and eighteen 
men and boys assembled in the church. Winslow, 
attended by his officers and men caused a guard to 
be placed round the church, and then announced to 
the i^eoj^le his majesty's decision that they were to 
be removed with their families out of the country. 
The church became at once a guard-house, and all 
the prisoners were under strict surveillance. At 
the same time similar plans had been carried out at 
Pisiquid under Captain Murray, and less success- 
fully at Chignecto. Meanwhile there were whispers 
of a rising among the prisoners, and although the 
transports which had been ordered from Boston 
had not yet arrived, it was determined to make 
use of the vessels which had conveyed the troops, 
and remove the men to these for safer keeping. 
This was done on the 10th of September, and the 
men remained on the vessels in the harbor until 
the arrival of the transports, when these were made 
use of, and about three thousand souls sent out of 
the country to North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, 
Pennsylvania, New York, Connecticut, and Massa- 
chusetts. In the haste and confusion of sending 
them off, — a haste which was increased by the 
anxiety of the ollicers to be rid of the distasteful 



EVANGELINE. 9 

business, and a confusion which was greater from 
the difference of tongues, — many families were 
separated, and some at least never came together 
again. The story of Evangeline is the story of 
such a separation. The removal of the Acadians 
was a blot upon the government of Nova Scotia 
and upon that of Great Britain, which never dis- 
owned the deed, although it was probably done 
without direct permission or command from Eng- 
land. It proved to be unnecessary, but it must 
also be remembered that to many men at that time 
the English power seemed trembling before France, 
and that the colony at Halifax regarded the act as 
one of self-preservation. 

The authorities for a historical inquiry into this 
subject are best seen in a volume published by the 
government of Nova Scotia at Halifax in 18G9, 
entitled, Selections from the Public Documents of 
the Province of Nova Scotia ; edited by Thomas 
B. Akins, D. C. L., Commissioner of Public Rec- 
ords ; and in a manuscript journal kept by Col- 
onel Winslow, now in the cabinet of the Massachu- 
setts Historical Society in Boston. At the State 
House in Boston are two volumes of records, en- 
titled French Neutrals, which contain voluminous 
papers relating to the treatment of the Acadians 
who were sent to Massachusetts. Probably the 
work used by the poet in writing Evangeline was 
An Historical and Statistical Account of Nova 
Scotia, by Thomas C. Haliburton, who is best 
known as the author of 7%e Glock-Maher ; or The 



10 LONGFELLOW. 

Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick of Slickville, 
a book which, written apparently to prick the 
Nova Scotians into more enterprise, was for a long 
while the chief representative of Yankee smart- 
ness. Judge Haliburton's history was publishefl 
in 1829. A later history, which takes advantage 
more freely of historical documents, is A History 
of Nova Scotia, or Acadie, by Beamish Murdock, 
Esq., Q. C, Halifax, 1866. Still more recent is 
a smaller, well written work, entitled T/ie History 
of Acadia from its First Discovery to its Surrender 
to England hy the Treaty of Paris, by James Han- 
nay, St. John, N. B., 1879. W. J. Anderson pub- 
lished a paper in the transactions of the Literary 
and Historical Society of Quebec, New Series, part 
7, 1870, entitled Evangeline and the Archives of 
Nova Scotia, in which he examines the poem by 
the light of the volume of Nova Scotia Archives, 
edited by T. B. Akins. The sketches of travellers 
in Nova Scotia, as Acadia, or a Month among the 
Blue Noses, by F. S. Cozzens, and Baddech, by C. 
D. Warner, give the present appearance of the 
country and inhabitants. 

The measure of Evangeline is what is commonly 
known as English dactylic hexameter. The hexam- 
eter is the measure used by Homer in the Iliad 
and the Odyssey, and by Virgil in the JEneid, but 
the difference between the English language and 
the Latin or Greek is so great, especially when we 
consider that in English poetry every word must 



EVANGELINE. 11 

be accented according to its customary pronuncia- 
tion, while in scanning Greek and Latin verse ac- 
cent follows the quantity of the vowels, that in ap- 
plying this term of hexameter to Evangeline it 
must not be supposed by the reader that he is get- 
ting the effect of Greek hexameters. It is the 
Greek hexameter translated into English use, and 
some have maintained that the verse of the Iliad is 
better represented in the English by the trochaic 
measure of fifteen syllables, of which an excellent 
illustration is in Tennyson's Loclisley Hall ; others 
have compared the Greek hexameter to the ballad 
metre of fourteen syllables, used notably by Chap- 
man in his translation of Homer's Iliad. The 
measure adopted by Mr. Longfellow has never be- 
come very popular in English poetry, but has re- 
peatedly been attempted by other poets. The 
reader will find the subject of hexameters dis- 
cussed by Matthew Arnold in his lectures On 
Translating Homer ; by Coventry Patmore in a 
paper on English Metrical Law in the North Brit- 
ish Review, volume xxvii. ; and by John Stuart 
Blackie in Remarks on English Hexameters, con- 
tained in liis volume, Ho)*(b Hellenicce. 

The measure lends itself easily to the lingering 
melancholy which marks the greater part of the 
poem, and the poet's fine sense of harmony between 
subject and form is rarely better shown than in this 
poem. The fall of the verse at the end of the line 
and the sharp recovery at the beginning of the next 
will be snares to the reader, who must beware of 



12 LONGFELLOW. 

a jerking style of delivery. The voice naturally 
seeks a rest in the middle of the line, and this rest, 
or cajsural pause, should be carefully regarded ; a 
little jiractice will enable one to acquire that habit 
of reading the hexameter, which we may liken, 
roughly, to the climbing of a hill, resting a moment 
on the summit, and then descending the other side. 
The charm in reading Evangeline aloud, after a 
clear imderstanding of the sense, which is the es- 
sential in all good reading, is found in this gentle 
labor of the former half of the line, and gentle ac- 
celeration of the latter half.] 



This is the forest primeval. The murmuring 
pines and the hemlocks, 

Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indis- 
tinct in the twilight, 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and 
prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on 
their bosoms. 

1. A primeval forest is, strictly speaking, one which lias never 
been disturbed by the axe. 

3. Druids were priests of the Celtic inhabitants of ancient 
Gaul and Britain. Tlie name was probably of Celtic origin, but 
its form may have been determined by the Greek word drus, an 
oak, since their places of worship were consecrated groves of 
oak. Periiaps tlie choice of the image was governed by tlie 
analogy of a religion and tribe that were to disappear before a 
stronger power. 

4. A poetical description of an ancient har|)er will he found in 
the Introduction to the Lay of the Last Minstrtl, by Sir Walter 
Scott. 



E VANGELINE. 13 

5 Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced 
neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 
wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval; but where are the 
hearts that beneath it 

Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the wood- 
land the voice of the huntsman? 

Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of 
Acadian farmers, — 
lo Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water 
the woodlands, 

Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an 
image of heaven? 

Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers 
forever departed ! 

Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty 
blasts of October 

Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle 
them far o'er the ocean. 
15 Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre. 

Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and en- 
dures, and is patient. 

Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of 
wonum's devotion, 

List to the mournful tradition still sung by the 
pines of the forest ; 

List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the 
happy. 

8. Observe how the tragedy of the story is anticipated by this 
picture of the startled roe. 

19. In the earliest records Acadie is called Cadie; it after- 



14 LONGFELLOW. 

PART THE FIRST. 



20 In the Acadian land, on the shores of the Basin 

of Minas, 
Distant, secluded, still, the little village of Grand- 

Pre 
Lay in the fruitful valley. Vast meadows stretched 

to the eastward, 
Giving the village its name, and pasture to flocks 

Avithout number. 
Dikes, that the hands of the farmers had raised 

with labor incessant, 

wards was called Arcadia, Accadia or L'Acadie. The name is 
probably a French adaptation of a word common among the 
Micmac Indians living there, signifying place or region, and 
used as an affix to other words as indicating the place where 
various things, as cranberries, eels, seals, were found in abun- 
dance. The French turned this Indian term into Cadie or 
Acadie; the English into Quoddy, in which form it remains 
when applied to the Quoddy Indians, to Quoddy Head, the last 
point of the United States next to Acadia, and in the compound 
Passamaquoddy, or Pollock-Ground. 

21. Compare, for effect, the first line of Goldsmith's The 
Traveller. Grand-Prc will be found on the map as part of the 
township of Horton. 

24. The people of Acadia are mainly the descendants of the 
colonists who wore brought out to La Have and Port Royal by 
Isaac de Kazilly and Charnisaj- between the years 1633 and 
1G38. These colonists came from Rochelle, Saintonge, and Poi- 
tou, so that they were drawn from a very limited area on the 
west coast of France, covered by the modern departments of 
Vendi'e and Charente Inferieure. This circumstance had some 
intluence on their mode of settling the lands of Acadia, for they 
came from a country of marshes, where the sea was kept out by 
artificial dikes, and they found in Acadia similar marshes, which 
they dealt with in the same way that they had been accustomed 
to practice in France. Hannaj-'s fUslory oj" Acadia, pp. 282, 



EVANGELINE. 15 

25 Shut out the turbulent tides; but at stated seasons 

the flood-gates 
Opened, and welcomed the sea to wander at will 

o'er the meadows. 
West and south there were fields of flax, and 

orchards and cornfields 
Spreading afar and unfenced o'er the plain; and 

away to the northward 
Blomidon rose, and the forests old, and aloft on 
. the mountains 

30 Sea-fogs pitched their tents, and mists from the 

mighty Atlantic 
Looked on the happy valley, but ne'er from their 

station descended. 
There, in the midst of its farms, reposed the Aca- 
dian village. 
Strongly built were the houses, with frames of oak 

and of hemlock, 
Such as the peasants of Normandy built in the 

reign of the Henries. 
35 Thatched were the roofs, with dormer-windows ; 

and gables projecting 
Over the basement below protected and shaded 

the doorway. 

283. An excellent account of dikes and the flooding of low 
lands, as practised in Holland, may be found in A Farmer's 
Vacation, bj' George E. Waring, ,Tr. 

29. Blomidon is a mountainous headland of red sandstone, 
surmounted by a perpendicular wall of basaltic trap, the whole 
about four hundred feet in height, at the entrance of the Basin 
of Minas. 

34. Tlie characteristics of a Normandy village may be further 
learned by reference to a pleasant little sketch-book, published 
a few years since, called Normandy Picturesque, by Henry 
Blackburn, and to Through Normandy, by Katharine S. Mac- 
quoid. 



16 LONGFELLOW. 

There in tlie tranquil evenings of summer, when 

brightly the sunset 
Lighted the village street, and gilded the vanes on 

the chimneys. 
Matrons and maidens sat in snow-white caps and 

in kirtles 
40 Scarlet and blue and green, with distaffs spinning 

the golden 
Flax for the gossiping looms, whose noisy shuttles 

within doors 
Mingled their sound with the whir of the wheels 

and the songs of the maidens. 
Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, 

and the children 
Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended 

to bless them. 
45 Reverend walked he among them ; and up rose 

matrons and maidens. 
Hailing his slow approach Avith words of affec- 
tionate welcome. 
Then came the laborers home from the field, and 

serenely the sun sank 
Down to his rest, and twilight prevailed. Anon 

from the belfry 
Softly the Angelas sounded, and over the roofs of 

the village 

39. The term kirtle was sometimes applied to the jacket only, 
sometimes to the train or upper petticoat attached to it. A full 
kirtle was always both ; a half-kirtlc was a term applied to either. 
A man's jacket was sometimes called a kirtle; here the reference 
is apparently to tlie full kirtle worn by women. 

49. Angdus Domini is the full name given to the bell which, 
at morning, noon, and night, called the people to prayer, in com- 
memoration of the visit of the angel of the Lord to the Virgin 
Mary. It was introduced into France in its modern form in the 
sixteenth centurv. 



EVANGELINE. 17 

50 Columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of in- 
cense asceniling, 
Rose from a hundred hearths, the homes of peace 

and contentment. 
Thus dwelt together in love these simple Acadian 

farmers, — 
Dwelt in the love of God and of man. Alike were 

they free from 
Fear, that reigns with the tyrant, and envy, the 

vice of republics. 
55 Neither locks had they to their doors, nor bars to 

their windows; 
But their dwellings were open as day and the 

hearts of the owners; 
There the richest was poor, and the poorest lived 

in abundance. 

Somewhat apart from the village, and nearer 
the Basin of Minas, 
Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of 
Grand-Pre, 
60 Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, direct- 
ing his household, 
Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride 

of the village. 
Stalworth and stately in form was the man of 

seventy winters; 
Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is covered 

with snow-flakes; 
White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks 
as brown as the oak-leaves. 
65 Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen 
summers ; 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 
the thorn by the wayside, 
2 



18 LONGFELLOW.. 

Black, yet liow softly tliey gleamed beneath tlie 

brown shade of her tresses ! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kiue that 

feed in the meadows. 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers 

at noontide 
70 Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth 

was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while the 

bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 

with his hyssop 
Sprinkles tlie congregation, and scatters blessings 

upon them, 
Down the long street she passed, with her chaplet 

of beads and her missal, 
75 Wearing her Norman cap and her kirtle of blue, 

and the ear-rings 
Brought in the olden time from France, and since, 

as an heirloom. 
Handed down from mother to child, through long 

generations. 
But a ci'lestial brightness — a more ethereal 

beauty — • 
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 

after confession, 
80 Homeward serenely she walked with God's bene- 

di(!tion upon her. 
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing 

of exquisite music. 

Fu-mly builded with rafters of oak, the house of 
the farmer 
Stood on the side of a hill commanding the sea ; 
and a shady 



EVANGELINE. 19 

Sycamore grew by the door, with a woodbine 

wreathing around it. 
85 Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath; 

and a footpath 
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in 

the meadow. 
Under the sycamore-tree were hives overhung by 

a penthouse, 
Such as the traveller sees in regions remote by the 

roadside. 
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image 

of Mary. 
90 Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the 

well with its moss-grown 
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough 

for the horses. 
Shielding the house from storms, on the north, 

were the barns and the farm-yard. 
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the an- 
tique ploughs and the harrows; 
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in 

his feathered seraglio, 
95 Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock, 

with the selfsame 
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent 

Peter, 
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a 

village. In each one 
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and 

a staircase. 
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous 

corn-loft. 

93. The accent js on the first syllable of antique, where it re- 
mains in the form antic, which once had the same general mean- 
ing. 

9!). Odorous. The accent here, as well as in line 403, is upon 



20 LONGFELLOW. 

loo There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and 
innocent inmates 

Murmuring ever of love; while above in the vari- 
ant breezes 

Numberless noisy weathercocks rattled and sang 
of mutation. 

Thus, at peace with God and the world, the 
farmer of Grand- Pre 

Lived on his sunny farm, and Evangeline gov- 
erned his household. 
105 Many a youth, as he knelt in the church and 
opened his missal, 

Fixed his eyes upon her as the saint of his deep- 
est devotion; 

Happy was he who might touch her hand or the 
hem of her garment ! 

Many a suitor came to her door, by the darkness 
befriended. 

And, as he knocked and waited to hear the sound 
of her footsteps, 
no Knew not which beat the louder, his heart or the 
knocker of iron; 

Or, at the joyous feast of the Patron Saint of the 
village. 

Bolder grew, and pressed her hand in the dance 
as he whispered 

the first sj'Uable, where it is commonly placed ; but Milton, who 
of all poets had the most refined ear, writes 
" So from tho root 
Springs lighter tlie green stalk, from thence tho leaves 
More airy, last the bright consummate flower 
Spirits odorous breathes." 

Par. Lost, Book V., lines 479-482. 

But he also uses the more familiar accent in other passages, as 
" An amber scent, of 6dorous perfume.'' 

Samson Agonistes, 720 



EVANGELINE. 21 

Hurried words of love, that seemed a part of the 
music. 

But among all who came young Gabriel only was 
welcome ; 
115 Gabriel Lajeunesse, the son of Basil the black- 
smith, 

Who was a mighty man in the village, and hon- 
ored of all men ; 

For since the birth of time, throughout all ages 
and nations, 

Has the craft of the smith been held in repute by 
the people. 

Basil was Benedict's friend. Their children from 
earliest childhood 
120 Grew up together as brother and sister; and 
Father Felician, 

Priest and pedagogue both in the village, had 
taught them their letters 

Out of the selfsame book, with the hymns of the 
church and the plain-song. 

But when the hymn was sung, and the daily les- 
son completed. 

Swiftly they hurried away to the forge of Basil 
the blacksmith. 
125 There at the door they stood, with wondering eyes 
to behold him 

Take in his leathern lap the hoof of the horse as a 
plaything. 

Nailing the shoe in its place; while near him the 
tire of the cart-wheel 

Lay like a fiery snake, coiled round in a circle of 
cinders. 

Oft on autumnal eves, when without in the gath- 
ering darkness 
122. The plain-song is a monotonic recitative of the collects. 



22 LONGFELLOW. 

130 Burf^ting with light seemed the smitliy, through 

every cranny and crevice, 
Warm by the forge within they watched the la- 
boring bellows, 
And as its panting ceased, and the sparks expired 

in the ashes, 
Merrily laughed, and said they were nuns going 

into the chapel. 
Oft on sledges in winter, as swift as the swoop of 

the eagle, 
135 Down the hillside bounding, they glided away o'er 

the meadow. 
Oft in the barns they climbed to the populous 

nests on the rafters. 
Seeking with eager eyes that wondrous stone, 

which the swallow 
Brings from the shore of the sea to restore the 

sight of its fledglings; 
Lucky was he who found that stone in the nest of 

the swallow ! 
140 Thus passed a few swift years, and they no longer 

were children. 
He was a valiant youth, and his face, like the face 

of the morning. 
Gladdened the earth with its light, and ripened 

thought into action. 
She was a woman now, with the heart and hopes 

of a woman. 

133. The French have another saving similar to this, that 
they were guests going into the wedding. 

139. In Pluquet's Contes Pojmlnires we are told that if one of 
a swallow's young is blind the mother bird seeks on the shore 
of the ocean a little stone, with which she restores its sight; and 
he adds, "He who is fortunate enough to find that stone in a 
swallow's nest holds a wonderful remedy." Pluquet's book 
treats of Norman superstitions and popular traits. 



EVANGELINE. 23 

" Sunshine of Saint Eulalie " was she called ; for 
that was the sunshine 
145 Which, as the farmers believed, would load their 
orchards with apples; 

She too would brin<>; to her husband's house de- 
light and abundance, 

Filling it full of love and the ruddy faces of chil- 
dren. 



Now had the season returned, when the nights 

grow colder and longer, 
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion 

enters. 
150 Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, 

from the ice-bound, 
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical 

islands. 
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the 

winds of September 
"Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old 

with the angel. 
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement. 
155 Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded 

their honey 
Till the hives overflowed ; and the Indian hunters 

asserted 
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of 

the foxes. 

144. Pluquet also gives this proverbial saying: — 

" Si le soleil rit le jour Sainte-Eulalie, 
II y aura pommes et ciJrc i folie." 

(If the sun smiles on Saint Eulalie's daj', there will be plenty 
of apples, and cider enough.) 
Saint Eulalie's day is the 12th of February. 



24 LONGFELLO W. 

Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed 

that beautiful season, 
Called by the pious Acadian j^easants the Summer 

of A 11- Saints ! 
1 60 Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical 

light; and the landscape 
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of child- 
hood. 
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the rest- 
less heart of the ocean 
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in 

harmony blended. 
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in 

the farm -yards, 
165 AVhir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing 

of pigeons, 
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, 

and the great sun 
Looked with the eye of love through the golden 

vapors around him; 
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet 

and yellow, 
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering 

tree of the forest 
170 Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned 

with mantles and jewels. 

159. The Summer of All-Saints is our Indian Summer, All 
Saints Day being November 1st. The French also give this 
season the name of St. Martin's Summer, St. Martiu's Da}' 
being November 11th. 

170. Herodotus, in his account of Xerxes' expedition against 
Greece, tells of a beautiful plane-tree which Xerxes found, 
and was so enamored with that he dressed it as one might a 
woman and placed it under the care of a guardsman (vii. 31). 
Another writer, ^lian, improving on this, says be adorned it 
with a necklace and bracelets. 



EVANGELINE. 25 

Now recommenced the reign of rest and affec- 
tion and stillness. 
Day with its burden and heat had departed, and 

twilight descending 
Brought back the evening star to the sky, and the 

herds to the homestead. 
Pawing the ground they came, and resting their 

necks on each other, 
175 And with their nostrils distended inhaling the 

freshness of evening. 
Foremost, bearing the bell, Evangeline's beautiful 

heifer. 
Proud of her snow-white hide, and the ribbon that 

waved from her collar. 
Quietly paced and slow, as if conscious of human 

affection. 
Then came the shepherd back with his bleating 

flocks from the seaside, 
180 Where was their favorite pasture. Behind them 

followed the watch- dog, 
Patient, full of importance, and grand in the pride 

of his instinct. 
Walking from side to side with a lordly air, and 

superbly 
Waving his bushy tail, and urging forward the 

stragglers ; 
Regent of flocks was he when the shepherd slept; 

their protector, 
185 When from the forest at night, through the starry 

silence, the wolves howled. 
Late, with the rising moon, returned the wains 

from the marshes. 
Laden with briny hay, that filled the air with its 

odor. 
Cheerily neighed the steeds, with dew on their 

manes and their fetlocks, 



26 LONGFELLOW. 

While aloft on their shoulders the wooden and 
ponderous saddles, 
190 Painted with brilliant dyes, and adorned with tas- 
sels of crimson, 

Nodded in brii;ht array, like hollyhocks heavy 
•with blossoms. 

Patiently stood the cows meanwhile, and yielded 
their udders 

Unto the milkmaid's hand; whilst loud and in reg- 
ular cadence 

Into the sounding pails the foaming streamlets de- 
scended. 
195 Lowing of cattle and peals of laughter were heard 
in the farm-yard. 

Echoed back by the barns. Anon they sank into 
stillness; 

Heavily closed, with a jarring sound, the valves of 
the barn-doors. 

Rattled the wooden bars, and all for a season was 
silent. 

In-doors, warm by the wide-mouthed fireplace, 
idly the farmer 
200 Sat in his elbow-chair, and watched how the 
flames and the smoke-wreaths 

Struggled together like foes in a burning city. 
Behind him, 

Nodding and mocking along the wall with gest- 
ures fantastic. 

Darted his own huge shadow, and vanished away 
into darkness. 

193. There is a charming milkmaid's song in Tennyson's 
drama of Queen Mary, Act III., Scene 5, where the streaming 
of the milii into the sounding pails is caught in the tinkling t's 
of such lines as 

" When you came and kissed me milking the cows." 



EVANGELINE. 27 

Faces, clumsily carved in oak, on the back of his 
arm-chair 
205 Laughed in the flickering light, and the pewter 
plates on the dresser 

Caught and reflected the flame, as shields of ar- 
mies the sunshine. 

Fragments of song the old man sang, and carols of 
Christmas, 

Such as at home, in the olden time, his fathers be- 
fore him 

Sang in their Norman orchards and bright Bur- 
gundian vineyards. 
210 Close at her father's side was the gentle Evange- 
line seated, 

Spinning flax for the loom that stood in the cor- 
ner behind her. 

Silent awhile were its treadles, at rest was its dil- 
igent shuttle, 

While the monotonous drone of the wheel, like 
the drone of a bagpipe. 

Followed the old man's song, and united the frag- 
ments together. 
215 As in a church, when the chant of the choir at in- 
tervals ceases. 

Footfalls are heard in the aisles, or words of the 
priest at the altar, 

So, in each pause of the song, with measured mo- 
tion the clock clicked. 

Thus as they sat, there were footsteps heard, 
and, suddenly lifted, 
Sounded the wooden latch, and the door swung 
back on its hinges. 
220 Benedict knew by the hob-nailed shoes it was Ba- 
sil the blacksmith, 



28 LONGFELLOW. 

And by her beating heart Evangeline knew who 

was with him. 
"Welcome!" the farmer exclaimed, as their 

footsteps paused on the threshold, 
" Welcome, Basil, my friend! Come, take thy 

place on the settle 
Close by the chimney-side, which is always empty 

without thee; 
225 Take from the shelf ovei'head thy pipe and the 

box of tobacco; 
Never so much thyself art thou as when, through 

the curling 
Smoke of the pipe or the forge, thy friendly and 

jovial face gleams 
Round and red as the harvest moon through the 

mist of the marshes." 
Then, with a smile of content, thus answered Ba- 
sil the blacksmith, 
230 Taking with easy air the accustomed seat by the 

fireside : — 
" Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest 

and thy ballad! 
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others 

are filled with 
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before 

them. 
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked 

up a horseshoe." 
235 Pausing a moment, to take the pipe that Evange- 
line brought him, 
And with a coal from the embers had lighted, he 

slowly continued : — 
" Four days now are passed since the English 

ships at their anchors 



EVANGELINE. 29 

Ride in the Gaspereau's moutli, with their cannon 

pointed against us. 
What their design may be is unknown ; but all are 

commanded 
240 On the morrow to meet in the church, where his 

Majesty's mandate 
Will be proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in 

the mean time 
Many surmises of evil alarm the hearts of the peo- 
ple." 
Then made answer the farmer: — " Perhaps some 

friendlier purpose 
Brings these ships to our shores. Perhaps the 

harvests in England 
245 By untimely rains or untimelier heat have been 

blighted, 
And from our bursting barns they would feed 

their cattle and children." 
*'Not so thinketh the folk in the village," said 

warmly the blacksmith, 
Shaking his head as in doubt; then, heaving a 

sigh, he continued : — 
•' Louisburg is not forgotten, nor Beau Sejour, nor 

Port Royal. 

239. The text of Colonel Winslow's proclamation will be 
found in Haliburton, i. 175. 

249. Louisburg, on Cape Breton, was built by the French as 
a military and naval station early in the eighteenth century, 
but was talcen by an expedition from Massachusetts under Gen- 
eral Pepperell in 1745. It was restored bj' England to France in 
the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, and recaptured by the English in 
1757. Beau Sejour was a French fort upon the neclt of land 
connecting Acadia with the main-land which had just been cap- 
tured by Winslow's forces. Port Roj-al, afterward called Annapo- 
lis Royal, at the outlet of Annapolis River into the Bay of Fundy, 
had been disputed ground, being occupied alternatelj'' by French 



30 LONGFELLOW. 

250 Many already have fled to the forest, and lurk on 
its outskirts, 

Waiting with anxious hearts the dubious fate of 
to-morrow. 

Arms have been taken from us, and warlike weap- 
ons of all kinds; 

Nothing is left but the blacksmith's sledge and the 
scythe of the mower." 

Then with a pleasant smile made answer the jo- 
vial farmer : — 
255 " Safer are we unarmed, in the midst of our flocks 
and our cornfields, 

Safer within these peaceful dikes, besieged by the 
ocean, 

Than our fathers in forts, besieged by the ene- 
my's cannon. 

Fear no evil, my friend, and to-night may no 
shadow of sorrow 

Fall on this house and hearth; for this is the night 
of the contract. 
260 Built are the house and the barn. The merry lads 
of the village 

Strongly have built them and well; and, breaking 
the glebe round about them. 

Filled the barn with hay, and the house with food 
for a twelvemonth. 

Rend Leblanc will be here anon, with his papers 
and inkhorn. 

Shall we not then be glad, and rejoice in the joy 
of our children? " 
265 As apart by the window she stood, with her hand 
in her lover's, 

and English, but in 1710 was attacked by an expedition from 
New Enj^land, and after that held by the English government 
and made a fortilied place. 



EVANGELINE. 31 

Blushing Evangeline beard the words that her 

father had spoken, 
And, as they died on his lips, the worthy notary 

entered. 



Bent like a laboring oar, that toils in the surf of 

the ocean, 
Bent, but not broken, by age was the form of the 

notary public ; 
270 Shocks of yellow hair, like the silken floss of the 

maize, bung 
Over his shoulders ; his forehead was high ; and 

glasses with horn bows 
Sat astride on his nose, with a look of wisdom 

supernal. 
Father of twenty children was he, and more than 

a hundred 
Children's children rode on his knee, and heard 

his great watch tick. 
275 Four long years in the times of the war had he 

languished a captive. 
Suffering much in an old French fort as the friend 

of the English. 

267. A notary is an officer authorized to attest contracts or 
writings of ay]^ kind. His authority varies in different coun- 
tries; in France he is the necessary maker of all contracts where 
the subject-matter exceeds 150 francs, and his instruments, 
which are preserved and registered by himself, are the originals, 
the parties preserving only copies. 

275. King George's War, which broke out in 1744 in Cape 
Breton, in an attack by the French upon an English garrison, 
and closed with the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748; or, the 
reference may possibly be to Queen Anne's war, 1702-1713, 
when the French aided the Indians in their warfare with the 
colonists. 



32 LONGFELLO W. 

Now, though warier grown, without all guile or 

suspicion, 
Ripe in wisdom was he, but patient, and simple, 

and childlike. 
He was beloved by all, and most of all by the 

children ; 
280 For he told them tales of the Loup-garou in the 

forest, 
And of the goblin that came in the night to water 

the horses. 
And of the white Letiche, the ghost of a child 

who unchristened 
Died, and was doomed to haunt unseen the cham- 
bers of children ; 
And how on Christmas eve the oxen talked in the 

stable, 
285 And how the fever was cured by a spider shut 

up in a nutshell. 
And of the marvellous powers of four-leaved 

clover and horseshoes, 
With whatsoever else was writ in the lore of the 

village. 

280. The Loup-ffaroti, or were-wolf, is, according to an old 
superstition especially prevalent in France, a man with power 
to turn himself into a wolf, which he does that he may devour 
children. In later times the superstition passed into the more 
innocent one of men having a power to charm wolves. 

282. Pluquet relates this superstition, and conjectures that 
the white, fleet ermine gave rise to it. 

284. A belief still lingers among the peasantry of England, as 
well as on the continent, that at midnight, on Christmas eve, 
the cattle in the stalls fall down on their knees in adoration of 
the infant Saviour, as the old legend says was done in the stable 
at Bethlehem. 

285. In like manner a popular superstition prevailed in Eng- 
land that ague could be cured by sealing a spider in a goose- 
riiiill and hanging it about the neck. 



EVANGELINE. 33 

Then up rose from his seat by the fireside Basil 
the blacksmith, 

Knocked from his pipe the ashes, and slowly ex- 
tending his right hand, 
290 "Father Leblanc," he exclaimed, "thou hast 
heard the talk in the village. 

And, perchance, canst tell us some news of these 
ships and their errand." 

Then with modest demeanor made answer the no- 
tary public, — 

*' Gossip enough have I heard, in sooth, yet am 
never the wiser; 

And what their errand may be I know no better 
than others. 
295 Yet am I not of those who imagine some evil in- 
tention 

Brings them here, for we are at peace; and why 
then molest us ? " 

" God's name! " shouted the hasty and somewhat 
irascible blacksmith; 

"Must we in all things look for the how, and the 
why, and the wherefore? 

Daily injustice is done, and might is the right of 
the strongest! " 
300 But, without heeding his warmth, continued the 
notary public, — 

" Man is unjust, but God is just ; and finally jus- 
tice 

Triumphs; and well I remember a story, that often 
consoled me. 

When as a captive I lay in the old French fort at 
Port Koyal." 

302. This is an old Florentine story; in an altered form it is 
the theme of Rossini's opera of La Gazza Lndra. 
3 



34 LONGFELLOW. 

This was the old man's favorite tale, and he loved 

to repeat it 
305 When his neii^libors complained that any injustice 

was done them. 
" Once in an ancient city, whose name I no longer 

remember, 
Raised aloft on a column, a brazen statue of Jus- 
tice 
Stood in the public square, upholding the scales in 

its left hand. 
And in its right a sword, as an emblem that jus- 
tice presided 
310 Over the laws of the land, and the hearts and 

homes of the people. 
Even the birds had built their nests in the scales 

of the balance, 
Having no fear of the sword that flashed in the 

sunshine above them. 
But in the course of time the laws of the land 

were corrupted; 
Might took the place of right, and the weak were 

oppressed, and the mighty 
315 Ruled with an iron rod. Then it chanced in a 

nobleman's palace 
That a necklace of pearls was lost, and erelong a 

suspicion 
Fell on an orphan girl who lived as maid in the 

household. 
She, after form of trial condemned to die on the 

scaffold. 
Patiently met her doom at the foot of the statue 

of Justice. 
320 As to her Father in heaven her innocent spirit 

ascended, 



EVANGELINE. 35 

Lo! o'er the city a tempest rose; and the bolts of 

the thunder 
Smote the statue of bronze, and hurled in wrath 

from its left hand 
Down on the pavement below the clattering scales 

of the balance, 
And in the hollow thereof was found the nest of a 

magpie, 
325 Into whose clay-built walls the necklace of pearls 

was inwoven." 
Silenced, but not convinced, when the story was 

ended, the blacksmith 
Stood like a man who fain would speak, but find- 

eth no language; 
All his thoughts were congealed into lines on his 

face, as the vapors 
Freeze in fantastic shapes on the window-panes 

in the winter. 

330 Then Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on 

the table. 
Filled, till it overflowed, the pewter tankard with 

home-brewed 
Nut-brown ale, that was famed for its strength in 

the village of Grand-Pre; 
While from his pocket the notary drew his papers 

and inkhorn. 
Wrote with a steady hand the date and the age of 

the parties, 
335 Naming the dower of the bride in flocks of sheep 

and in cattle. 
Orderly all things proceeded, and duly and well 

were completed. 
And the great seal of the law was set like a sun 

on the margin. 



36 LONGFELLOW. 

Then from his leathern pouch the farmer threw 

on the table 
Three times the ol<l man's fee in solid pieces of 

silver; 
340 And the notary rising, and blessing the bride and 

the bridegroom, 
Lifted aloft the tankard of ale and drank to their 

welfare. 
Wiping the foam from his lip, he solemnly bowed 

and departed, 
While in silence the others sat and mused by the 

fireside, 
Till Evangeline brought the draught-board out of 

its corner. 
345 Soon was the game begun. In friendly contention 

the old men 
Laughed at each lucky hit, or unsuccessful ma- 
noeuvre. 
Laughed when a man was crowned, or a breach 

was made in the king-row. 
Meanwhile apart, in the twilight gloom of a win- 
dow's embrasure, 
Sat the lovers and whispered together, beholding 

the moon rise 
350 Over the pallid sea and the silvery mist of the 

meadows. 
Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows of 

heaven, 
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of 

the angels. 

Thus was the evening passed. Anon the bell 
from the belfry 

344. The word draughts is derived from the circumstance of 
drawing the men from one square to another. 



EVANGELINE. 37 

Rang out the hour of nine, the village curfew, and 

straightway 
355 Rose the guests and departed; and silence reigned 

in the household. 
Many a farewell word and sweet good-night on 

the door-step 
Lingered long in Evangeline's heart, and filled it 

with gladness. 
Carefully then were covered the embers that 

glowed on the hearth-stone, 
And on the oaken stairs resounded the tread of 

the farmer. 
360 Soon with a soundless step the foot of Evangeline 

followed. 
Up the staircase moved a luminous space in the 

darkness, 
Lighted less by the lamp than the shining face of 

the maiden. 
Silent she passed through the hall, and entered the 

door of her chamber. 
Simple that chamber was, with its curtains of 

white, and its clothes-press 
365 Ample and high, on whose spacious shelves were 

carefully folded 
Linen and woollen stuffs, by the hand of Evange- 
line woven. 

354. Curfew is a corruption of couvre-feii, or cover fire. In 
the Middle Ages, wlien police patrol at night was almost un- 
known, it was attempted to lessen the chances of crime by mak- 
ing it an offence against the laws to be found in the streets in 
the night, and the curfew bell was tolled, at various hours, ac- 
cording to the custom of the place, from seven to nine o'clock in 
the evening. It warned honest people to lock their doors, cover 
their fires, and go to bed. The custom still lingers in many 
places, even in America, of ringing a bell at nine o'clock in the 
evening. 



38 LONGFELLOW. 

This was the precious dower she would bring to 

her husband in marrias^e, 
Better than flocks and herds, being proofs of her 

skill as a housewife. 
Soon she extinguished her lamp, for the mellow 

and radiant moonlight 
370 Streamed through the windows, and lighted the 

room, till the heart of the maiden 
Swelled and obeyed its power, like the tremulous 

tides of the ocean. 
Ah! she was fair, exceeding fair to behold, as she 

stood with 
Naked snow-white feet on the gleaming floor of 

her chamber! 
Little she dreamed that below, among the trees of 

the orchard, 
375 Waited her lover and watched for the gleam of 

her lamp and her shadow. 
Yet were her thoughts of him, and at times a feel- 
ing of sadness 
Passed o'er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds 

in the moonlight 
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for 

a moment. 
And, as she gazed from the window, she saw 

serenely the moon pass 
380 Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star 

follow her footsteps, 
As out of Abraham's tent young Ishmael wandered 

with Hagar! 

IV. 

Pleasantly rose next morn the sun on the vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre, 

Pleasantly gleamed in the soft, sweet air the Basin 
of Minas, 



EVANGELINE. 39 

Where the ships, with their wavering shadows, 

were riding at anchor. 
385 Life had long been astir in the village, and 

clamorous labor 
Knocked with, its hundred hands at the golden 

gates of the morning. 
Now from the country around, from the farms and 

neighboring hamlets, 
Came in their holiday dresses the blithe Acadian 

peasants. 
Many a glad good-morrow and jocund laugh from 

the young folk 
390 Made the bright air brighter, as up from the 

numerous meadows, 
Where no path could be seen but the track of 

wheels in the greensward, 
Group after group appeared, and joined, or passed 

on the highway. 
Long ere noon, in the village all sounds of labor 

were silenced. 
Thronged were the streets with people ; and noisy 

groups at the house-doors 
395 Sat in the cheerful sun, and rejoiced and gossiped 

together. 
Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed 

and feasted; 

396. "Real misery was wholly unknown, and benevolence 
anticipated the demands of poverty. Every misfortune was 
relieved as it were before it could be felt, without ostentation 
on the one hand, and without meanness on the other. It was, 
in short, a society of brethren, every individual of which was 
equally readv to give and to receive what he thought the com- 
mon right of mankind." From the Abbe Raynal's account of 
the Acadians. The Abb6 Guillaume Thomas Francis Raynal 
was a French writer (1711-1796) who published A Philosophical 
History of the Settlements and Trade of the. Europeans in the 



40 LONGFELLOW. 

For with this simple people, who lived like 

brothers together, 
All things were held in common, and what one 

had was another's. 
Yet under Benedict's roof hospitality seemed more 

abundant : 
400 For Evangeline stood among the guests of her 

father ; 
Bright was her face with smiles, and words of 

welcome and gladness 
Fell from her beautiful lips, and blessed the cup 

as she gave it. 

Under the open sky, in the odorous air of the 

orchard, 
Stript of its golden fruit, was spread the feast of 

betrothal. 
405 There in the shade of the porch were the priest 

and the notary seated; 
There good Benedict sat, and sturdy Basil the 

blacksmith. 
Not far withdrawn from these, by the cider-press 

and the beehives, 
Michael the fiddler was placed, with the gayest of 

hearts and of waistcoats. 
Shadow and light from the leaves alternately 

played on his snow-white 
410 Hair, as it waved in the wind; and the jolly face 

of the fiddler 
Glowed like a living coal when the ashes are blown 

from the embers. 

East and West Indies in which he included also some account 
of Canada and Nova Scotia. His picture of life among the 
Acadians, somewhat liij^lily colored, is the source from which 
after writers have drawn tlieir knowledge of Acadian manners. 



EVANGELINE. 41 

Gayly the old man sang to the vibrant sound of 
his fiddle, 

Tons les Bounjeois de Chartres, and Le Carillon de 
Dunkerque, 

And anon with his wooden shoes beat time to the 
music. 
415 Merrily, merrily whirled the wheels of the dizzy- 
ing dances 

Under the orchard-trees and down the path to the 
meadows ; 

Old folk and young together, and children mingled 
among them. 

413. Tous les Bourgeois de Chartres was a song written by 
Ducauroi, maitre de chapelle of Henri IV., the words of ^'liich 

are: — 

Yous connaissez Cybfele, 
Qui sut fixer le Temps; 
On la (lisait fort belle, 
MGme dans ses vieux ans. 



Cette divinity, quoique deja grand' mere, 
Avait les yeux doux, le teint frais 
Avait meme certains attraits 
Fermes comme la Terre. 

Le Carillon de Dunherque was a popular song to a tune 
played on the Dunkirk chimes. The words are : — 

Imprudent, t^miSralre 
A I'instant, je I'espfere 
Dans mon juste courroux, 
Tu vas tomber sous mes coups ! 

— Je brave ta menace 

— Etre moi ! quelle audace I 
Avance done, poltron ! 

Tu trembles? non, non, non. 

— J'etoufTe de colere I 

— Je ris de ta colore. 

The music to which the old man sang these songs will be found 
in La Cle du Caveau, by Pierre Capelle, Nos. 564 and 739. 
Paris: A. Cotelle. 



42 LONGFELLOW. 

Fairest of all the maids was Evangeline, Bene- 
dict's daughter! 

Noblest of all the youths was Gabriel, son of the 
blacksmith! 

420 So passed the morning away. And lo! with a 
summons sonorous 

Sounded the bell from its tower, and over the 
meadows a drum beat. 

Thronged ere long was the church with men. 
Without, in the churchyard. 

Waited the women. Tliey stood by the graves, 
and hung on the headstones 

Garlands of autumn-leaves and evergreens fresh 
from the forest. 
425 Then came the guard from the ships, and march- 
ing proudly among them 

Entered the sacred portal. With loud and disso- 
nant clangor 

Echoed the sound of their brazen drums from ceil- 
ing and casement, — 

Echoed a moment only, and slowly the ponderous 
portal 

Closed, and in silence the crowd awaited the will 
of the soldiers. 
430 Then uprose their commander, and spake from 
the steps of the altar. 

Holding aloft in his hands, with its seals, the 
royal commission. 

" You are convened this day," he said, "by his 
Majesty's orders. 

432. Colonel Winslow has preserved in his Diary the speech 
which he delivered to the assembled Acadians, and it is copied 
by Haliburtoa ia bis History of Nova Scotia, i. 1G6, 167. 



EVANGELINE. 43 

Clement and kind lias he been ; but how you have 

answered his kindness 
Let your own hearts reply ! To my natural make 

and my temper 
435 Painful the task is I do, which to you I know must 

be grievous. 
Yet must I bow and obey, and deliver the will of 

our monarch: 
Namely, that all your lands, and dwellings, and 

cattle of all kinds 
Forfeited be to the crown ; and that you your- 
selves from this province 
Be transported to other lands. God grant you 

may dwell there 
440 Ever as faithful subjects, a happy and peaceable 

people ! 
Prisoners now I declare you, for such is his Majes- 
ty's pleasure! " 
As, when the air is serene in the sultry solstice of 

summer. 
Suddenly gathers a storm, and the deadly sling of 

the hailstones 
Beats down the farmer's corn in the field, and 

shatters his windows, 
445 Hiding the sun, and strewing the ground with 

thatch from the house-roofs. 
Bellowing fly the herds, and seek to break their 

enclosures; 
So on the hearts of the people descended the words 

of the speaker. 
Silent a moment they stood in speechless wonder, 

and then rose 
Louder and ever louder a wail of sorrow and 

anger, 
450 And, by one impulse moved, they madly rushed to 

the door-way. 



44 LONGFELLOW. 

Vain was the hope of escape; and cries and fierce 

imprecations 
Rang througli the house of prayer ; and high o'er 

the heads of the others 
Rose, with his arras uplifted, the figure of Basil 

the blacksmith, 
As, on a stormy sea, a spar is tossed by the bil- 
lows. 
455 Flushed was his face and distorted with passion; 

and wildly he shouted, — 
"Down with the tyrants of England! we never 

have sworn them allegiance ! 
Death to these foreign soldiers, who seize on our 

homes and our harvests! " 
More he fain would have said, but the merciless 

hand of a soldier 
Smote him upon the mouth, and dragged him 

down to the pavement. 

460 In the midst of the strife and tumult of angry 
contention, 

Lo! the door of the chancel opened, and Father 
Felician 

Entered, with serious mien, and ascended the 
steps of the altar. 
• Raising his reverend hand, with a gesture he 
awed into silence 

All that clamorous throng ; and thus he spake to 
his people; 
465 Deep were his tones and solemn; in accents meas- 
ured and mournful 

Spake he, as, after the tocsin's alarum, distinctly 
the clock strikes. 

" What is this that ye do, my children? what mad- 
ness has seized you? 



EVANGELINE. 45 

Forty years of my life have I labored among you, 

and taught you, 
Not in word alone, but in deed, to love one 

another ! 
470 Is this the fruit of my toils, of my vigils and 

prayers and privations? 
Have you so soon forgotten all lessons of love and 

forgiveness ? 
This is the house of the Prince of Peace, and 

would you profane it 
Thus with violent deeds and hearts overflowing 

with hatred? 
Lo ! where the crucified Christ from His cross is 

gazing upon you ! 
475 See! in those sorrowful eyes what meekness and 

holy compassion ! 
Hark! how those lips still repeat the prayer, ' O 

Father, forgive them ! ' 
Let us repeat that prayer in the hour when the 

wicked assail us, 
Let us repeat it now, and say, ' O Father forgive 

them I ' " 
Few were his words of rebuke, but deep in the 

hearts of his people 
480 Sank they, and sobs of contrition succeeded the 

passionate outbreak, ' 

While they repeated his prayer, and said, " O 

Father, forgive them! " 

Then came the evening service. The tapers 

gleamed from the altar ; 
Fervent and deep was the voice of the priest, and 

the people responded, 
Not with their lips alone, but their hearts ; and 

the Ave Maria 



4Q LONGFELLOW. 

485 Siing they, and fell on their knees, and their souls, 
with devotion translated, 
Rose on the ardor of prayer, liive Elijah ascending 
to heaven. 

Meanwhile had spread in the village the tidings 
of ill, and on all sides 

Wandered, wailing, from house to house the 
women and children. 

Long at her father's door Evantjeline stood, with 
her right hand 
490 Shielding her eyes from the level rays of the sun, 
that, descending. 

Lighted the village street with mysterious splendor, 
and roofed each 

Peasant's cottage with golden thatch, and embla- 
zoned its windows. 

Long within had been spread the snow-white cloth 
on the table ; 

There stood the wheaten loaf, and the honey fra- 
grant with wild-flowers; 
495 There stood the tankard of ale, and the cheese 
fresh brought from the dairy ; 

And at the head of the board the great arm-chair 
of the farmer. 

Thus did Evangeline wait at her father's door, as 
the sunset 

Threw the long shadows of trees o'er the broad 
ambrosial meadows. 

Ah! on her spirit within a deeper shadow had 
fallen, 
500 And from the fields of her soul a fragrance celes- 
tial ascended, — 

492. To emblazon is literally to adorn anything with ensigns 
armorial. It was often the custom to work these ensigns into 
the design of painted windows. 



EVANGELINE. 47 

Charity, meekness, love, and hope, and forgive- 
ness, and patience! 

Then, all-forgetful of self, she wandered into the 
village, 

Cheering witli looks and words the mournful hearts 
of the women, 

As o'er the darkening fields with lingering steps 
they departed, 
505 Urged by their househoLl cares, and the weary 
feet of their children. 

Down sank the great red sun, and in golden, 
glinmiering vapors 

Veiled the light of his face, like the Prophet de- 
scending from Sinai. 

Sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelas 
sounded. 

Meanwhile, amid the gloom, by the church 
Evangeline lingered. 
510 All was silent within; and in vain at the door and 
the windows 

Stood she, and listened and looked, until, over- 
come by emotion, 

" Gabriel! " cried she aloud with tremulous voice; 
but no answer 

Came from the graves of the dead, nor the gloom- 
ier grave of the living. 

Slowly at length she returned to the tenantless 
house of her father. 
515 Smouldered the fire on the hearth, on the board 
was the supper untasted. 

Empty and drear was each room, and haunted 
with phantoms of terror. 

Sadly echoed her step on the stair and the floor of 
her chamber. 



48 LONGFELLO W. 

In the dead of the night she heard the disconso- 
late rain fall 

Loud on the withered leaves of the sycamore-tree 
by the window. 
520 Keenly the lightning flashed; and the voice of the 
echoing thunder 

Told her that God was in heaven, and governed 
the world he created ! 

Then she remembered the tale she had heard of 
the justice of Heaven; 

Soothed was her troubled soul, and she peacefully 
slumbered till mornino;. 



Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on 

the fifth day 
525 Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of 

the farm-house. 
Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful 

procession, 
Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the 

Acadian women, 
Driving in ponderous wains their household goods 

to the sea-shore, 
Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on 

their dwellings, 
530 Ere they were shut from sight by the winding 

road and the woodland. 
Close at their sides their children ran, and urged 

on the oxen. 
While in their little hands they clasped some frag- 
ments of 2>laythings. 

Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; 
and there on the sea-beach 



EVANGELINE. 49 

Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the 
peasants. 
535 All day long between the shore and the ships did 
the boats ply; 

All day long the wains came laboring down from 
the village. 

Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to 
his setting, 

Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums 
from the churchyard. 

Thither the women and children thronged. On a 
sudden the church-doors 
540 Opened, and forth came the guard, and marching 
in gloomy procession 

Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Aca- 
dian farmers. 

Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their 
homes and their country. 

Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are 
weary and wayworn. 

So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants 
descended 
545 Down from the church to the shore, amid their 
wives and their daughters. 

Foremost the young men came; and, raising to- 
gether their voices. 

Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic 
Missions : — 

*' Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible 
fountain ! 

Fill our hearts this day with strength and submis- 
sion and patience ! " 
550 Then the old men, as they marched, and the 
women that stood by the wayside 
4 



50 LONGFELLO W. 

Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the 
sunshine above them 

Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spir- 
its departed. 

Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited 

in silence, 
Not overcome with grief, but strong in the hour 

of affliction, — 
555 Calmly and sadly she waited, until the procession 

approached her, 
And she beheld the face of Gabriel pale with 

emotion. 
Tears then filled her eyes, and, eagerly running 

to meet him, 
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head on his 

shoulder, and whispered, — 
" Gabriel! be of good cheer ! for if we love one 

another 
560 Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever mis- 
chances may happen! " 
Smiling she spake these words; then suddenly 

paused, for her father 
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how changed 

was his aspect! 
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the fire 

from his eye, and his footstep 
Heavier seemed with the weight of the heavy 

heart in his bosom. 
565 But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped his neck 

and embraced him. 
Speaking words of endearment where words of 

comfort availed not. 
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that 

mournful procession. 



EVANGELINE. 51 

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and 
stir of embarking. 

Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the con- 
fusion 
570 Wives were torn from their husbands, and moth- 
ers, too late, saw their children 

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wild- 
est entreaties. 

So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel 
carried, 

While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood 
with her father. 

Half the task was not done when the sun went 
down, and the twilight 
575 Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the 
refluent ocean 

Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the 
sand-beach 

Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the 
slippery sea-weed. 

Farther back in the midst of the household goods 
and the wagons. 

Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, 
580 All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels 
near them, 

Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian 
farmers. 

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellow- 
ing ocean. 

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, 
and leaving 

Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of 
the sailors. 
585 Then, as the night descended, the herds returned 
from their pastures ; 



52 LONGFELLOW. 

Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk 

from their udders ; 
Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known 

bars of the farm-yard, — 
Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the 

hand of the milkmaid. 
Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no 

Angelas sounded. 
590 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no 

lights from the windows. 

But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires 

had been kindled, 
Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from 

wrecks in the tempest. 
Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces 

were gathered. 
Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the 

crying of children. 
595 Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth 

in his parish, 
Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and bless- 
ing and cheering, 
Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate 

sea-shore. 
Thus he approached the place where Evangeline 

sat with her father. 
And in the flickering light beheld the face of the 

old man, 
600 Haggard and hollow and wan, and without either 

thought or emotion. 
E'en as the face of a clock from which the hands 

have been taken. 
Vainly Evangeline strove with words and caresses 

to cheer him, 



EVANGELINE. 53 

Vainly offered him food; yet he moved not, he 
looked not, he spake not, 

But, with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flicker- 
ing fire-light. 
605 ^' Benedicite!" murmured the priest, in tones of 
compassion. 

More he fain would have said, but his heart was 
full, and his accents 

Faltered and paused on his lips, as the feet of a 
child on a threshold, 

Hushed by the scene he beholds, and the awful 
presence of sorrow. 

Silently, therefore, be laid his hand on the head 
of the maiden, 
610 Raising his tearful eyes to the silent stars that 
above them 

Moved on their way, unperturbed by the wrongs 
and sorrows of mortals. 

Then sat he down at her side, and they wept to- 
gether in silence. 

Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in au- 
tumn the blood-red 
Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er 
the horizon 
615 Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon mount- 
ain and meadow. 
Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge 
shadows together. 

615. The Titans were giant deities in Greek mythology who 
attempted to deprive Saturn of the sovereignty of heaven, and 
were. driven down into Tartarus by Jupiter the son of Saturn, 
who hurled thunderbolts at them. Briareus, the hundred- 
handed giant, was in mythology of the same parentage as the 
Titans, but was not classed with them. 



54 LONGFELLO W. 

Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs 

of the village, 
Gleamed on the sky and the sea, and the ships 

that lay in the roadstead. 
Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of 

flame were 
620 Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like 

the quivering hands of a martyr. 
Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burn- 
ing thatch, and, uplifting, 
Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from 

a hundred house-tops 
Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame 

intermingled. 

These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the 
shore and on shipboard. 
625 Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in 
their anguish, 

" We shall behold no more our homes in the vil- 
lage of Grand-Pre I " 

Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the 
farm-yards, 

Thinking the day had dawned; and anon the low- 
ing of cattle 

621. Gleeds. Hot, burning coals; a Chaucerian word: 

" And wafres piping hoot out of the gleede." 

Canterbury Tales, 1. 3379. 

The burning of the houses was in accordance with the instruc- 
tions of the Governor to Colonel Winslow, in case he should 
fail in collecting all the inhabitants: "You must proceed by the 
most vigorous measures possible, not onlv in compelling them 
to embark, but in depriving those who shall escape of all means 
of shelter or support by burning their houses, and by destroj'ing 
everything that may afford them the means of subsistence in 
the country." 



EVANGELINE. 55 

Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of 

dogs interrupted. 
630 Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the 

sleeping encampments 
Far in the western prairies of forests that skirt 

the Nebraska, 
When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with 

the speed of the whirlwind, 
Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to 

the river. 
Such was the sound that arose on the night, as 

the herds and the horses 
635 Broke through their folds and fences, and madly 

rushed o'er the meadows. 

Overwhelmed with the sight, yet speechless, 

the priest and the maiden 
Gazed on the scene of terror that reddened and 

widened before them; 
And as they turned at length to speak to their 

silent companion, 
Lo! from his seat he had fallen, and stretched 

abroad on the sea-shore 
640 Motionless lay his form, from which the soul had 

departed. 
Slowly the priest uplifted the lifeless head, and 

the maiden 
Knelt at her father's side, and wailed aloud in 

her terror. 
Then in a swoon she sank, and lay with her head 

on his bosom. 
Through the long night she lay in deep, oblivious 

slumber; 
645 And when she woke from the trance, she beheld a 

multitude near her. 



5G LONGFELLOW. 

Faces of friends she beheld, that were mournfully 

gazing upon her, 
Pallid, with tearful eyes, and looks of saddest 

compassion. 
Still the blaze of the burning village illumined 

the landscape. 
Reddened the sky overhead, and gleamed on the 

faces around her, 
650 And like the day of doom it seemed to her waver- 
ing senses. 
Then a familiar voice she heard, as it said to the 

people, — 
" Let us bury him here by the sea. When a 

happier season 
Brings us again to our homes from the unknown 

land of our exile. 
Then shall his sacred dust be piously laid in the 

churchyard . ' ' 
655 Such were the words of the priest. And there in 

haste by the sea-side, 
Having the glare of the burning village for funeral 

torches, 
But without bell or book, they buried the farmer 

of Grand-Pre. 
And as the voice of the priest repeated the serv- 
ice of sorrow, 
Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast 

congregation, 
660 Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar 

with the dirges. 
'T was the returning tide, that afar from the 

waste of the ocean, 

657. The bell was tolled to mark the passaj^e of the soul into 
the other world ; the book was the service book. The phrase 
" bell, book, or candle " was used in referring to excommunica- 
tion. 



EVANGELINE. 57 

With the first dawn of the day, came heaving 

and hurrying landward. 
Then recommenced once more the stir and noise 

of embarking; 
And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out 

of the harbor, 
665 Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and 

the village in ruins. 



PART THE SECOND. 
I. 

Mant a weary year had passed since the burning 
of Grand-Pre, 

When on the falling tide the freighted vessels de- 
parted. 

Bearing a nation, with all its household gods, into 
exile, 

Exile without an end, and without an example in 
story. 
670 Far asunder, on separate coasts, the Acadians 
landed; 

Scattered were they, like flakes of snow, when 
the wind from the northeast 

Strikes aslant through the fogs that darken the 
Banks of Newfoundland. 

Friendless, homeless, hopeless, they wandered 
from city to city, 

From the cold lakes of the North to sultry South- 
ern savannas, — 
675 From the bleak shores of the sea to the lands 
where the Father of Waters 

Seizes the hills in his hands, and drags them 
down to the ocean. 



58 LONGFELLO W. 

Deep in their sands to bury tlie scattered bones of 

the mammoth. 
Friends they sought and homes; and many, de- 
spairing, heart-broken, 
Asked of the earth but a grave, and no longer a 

friend nor a fireside. 
680 Written their history stands on tablets of stone in 

the churchyards. 
Long among them was seen a maiden who waited 

and wandered. 
Lowly and meek in spirit, and patiently suffering 

all things. 
Fair was she and young; but, alas! before her 

extended, 
Dreary and vast and silent, the desert of life, with 

its pathway 
685 Marked by the graves of those who had sorrowed 

and suffered before her, 
Passions long extinguished, and hopes long dead 

and abandoned. 
As the emigrant's way o'er the Western desert is 

marked by 
Camp-fires long consumed, and bones that bleach 

in the sunshine. 
Something there was in her life incomplete, im- 
perfect, unfinished; 
690 As if a morning of June, with all its music and 
sunshine. 
Suddenly paused in the sky, and, fading, slowly 

descended 

677. Bones of the mastodon, or mammoth, have been found 
scattered all over the territory of tlie United States and Canada, 
but the greatest number have been collected in the Salt Licks 
of Kentucky, and in the States of Ohio, Mississippi, Missouri, 
and Alabama. 



EVANGELINE. 59 

Into the east again, from whence it late had 

arisen. 
Sometimes she lingered in towns, till, urged by 

the fever within her, 
Urged by a restless longing, the hunger and thirst 

of the spirit, 
695 She would commence again her endless search and 

endeavor; 
Sometimes in churchyards strayed, and gazed on 

the crosses and tombstones, 
Sat by some nameless grave, and thought that 

perhaps in its bosom 
He was already at rest, and she longed to slumber 

beside him. 
Sometimes a rumor, a hearsay, an inarticulate 

whisper, 
700 Came with its airy hand to point and beckon her 

forward. 
Sometimes she spake with those who had seen her 

beloved and known him, 
But it was long ago, in some far-off place or for- 
gotten. 
" Gabriel Lajeunesse! " they said; " Oh, yes! we 

have seen him. 
He was with Basil the blacksmith, and both have 

gone to the prairies ; 
705 Coureurs-des-bois are they, and famous hunters 

and trappers." 

699. Observe the diminution in this line, by which one is led 
to the airy hand in the next. 

705. The coureurs-des-bois formed a class of men very early in 
Canadian history, produced by the exij^encies of the fur-trade. 
Thej' were French by birth, but by long affiliation with the 
Indians and adoption of their customs had become half-civilized 
vagrants, whose chief vocation was conducting the canoes of 
the traders along the lakes and rivers of the interior. Bush- 



60 LONGFELLOW. 

"Gabriel Lajeunesse ! " said otliers; "Oh, yes! 

we have seen him. 
He is a Voyaji^eur in the lowlands of Louisiana." 
Then would they say, "Dear child! why dream 

and wait for him longer? 
Are there not other youths as fair as Gabriel ? 

others 
710 Who have hearts as tender and true, and spirits 

as loyal ? 
Here is Baptiste Leblanc, the notary's son, who 

has loved thee 
Many a tedious year; come, give him, thy hand 

and be happy! 
Thou art too fair to be left to braid St. Catherine's 

tresses. 
Then would Evangeline answer, serenely but 

sadly, " I cannot! 
715 Whither my heart has gone, there follows my 

hand, and not elsewhere. 
For when the heart goes before, like a lamp, and 

illumines the pathway, 
Many things are made clear, that else lie hidden 

in darkness." 
Thereupon the priest, her friend and father-con- 
fessor, 

rangers is the English equivalent. They played an important 
part in the Indian wars, but were nearly as lawless as the Indians 
themselves. The reader will find them frequently referred to in 
Parkman's histories, especially in The Conspiracy of Pondac, 
The Discovery of the Great West, and Fronttnac and New 
France under Louis XI V. 

707. A voyageur is a river boatman, and is a term applied 
usually to Canadians. 

713. St. Catherine of Alexandria and St. Catherine of Siena 
were both celebrated for their vows of virginity. Hence the 
saying to braid St. Catherine's tresses,o{ one devoted to a single 
life. 



EVANGELINE. 61 

Said, with a smile, " O daughter! thy God thus 
speaketli within tliee ! 
720 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never was 
wasted ; 
If it enrich not the heart of another, its waters, 

returning 
Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill 

them full of refreshment; 
That which the fountain sends forth returns again 

to the fountain. 
Patience; accomplish thy labor; accomplish thy 

work of affection ! 
725 Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient en- 
durance is godlike. 
Therefore accomplish thy labor of love, till the 

heart is made godlike. 
Purified, strengthened, perfected, and rendered 

more worthy of heaven! " 
Cheered by the good man's words, Evangeline 

labored and waited. 
Still in her heart she heard the funeral dirge of 

the ocean, 
730 But with its sound there was mingled a voice that 

whispered, " Despair not!" 
Thus did that poor soul wander in want and cheer- 
less discomfort, 
Bleeding, barefooted, over the shards and thorns 

of existence. 
Let me essay, O Muse! to follow the wanderer's 

footsteps ; — 
Not through each devious path, each changeful 

year of existence; 
735 But as a traveller follows a streamlet's course 

through the valley: 
Far from its margin at times, and seeing the gleam 

of its water 



62 LONGFELLOW. 

Here and there, in some open space, and at inter- 
vals only ; 

Then drawing nearer its banks, through sylvan 
glooms that conceal it, 

Though he behold it not, he can hear its contin- 
uous murmur; 
740 Happy, at length, if he find a spot where it reaches 
an outlet. 

II. 

It was the month of May. Far down the Beauti- 
ful River, 

Past the Ohio shore and past the mouth of the 
Wabash, 

Into the golden stream of the broad and swift 
Mississippi, 

Floated a cumbrous boat, that was rowed by Aca- 
dian boatmen. 
745 It was a band of exiles: a raft, as it were, from 
the shipwrecked 

Nation, scattered along the coast, now floating to- 
gether, 

Bound by the bonds of a common belief and a 
common misfortune; 

Men and women and children, who, guided by 
hope or by hearsay, 

Sought for their kith and their kin among the 
few-acred farmers 
750 On the Acadian coast, and the prairies of fair 
Opelousas. 

741. The Iroquois gave to this river the name of Ohio, or the 
Beautiful River, and La Salle, who was the first European to 
discover it, preserved the name so that it very early was trans- 
ferred to maps. 

750. Between the 1st of January and the 1.3th of May, 1765, 
about six Iiundred and fifty Acadians had arrived at New 



EVANGELINE. 63 

With them Evangeline went, and her guide, 

the Father Felician. 
Onward o'er sunken sands, through a wilderness 

sombre with forests, 
Day after day they glided adown the turbulent 

river ; 
Night after night, by their blazing fires, encamped 

on its borders. 
755 Now through rushing chutes, among green islands, 

where plumelike 
Cotton-trees nodded their shadowy crests, they 

swept with the current. 
Then emerged into broad lagoons, where silvery 

sand-bars 
Lay in the stream, and along the wimpling waves 

of their margin. 
Shining with snow-white plumes, large flocks of 

pelicans waded. 
760 Level the landscape grew, and along the shores of 

the river. 
Shaded by china-trees, in the midst of luxuriant 

gardens, 
Stood the houses of planters, with negro cabins 

and dove-cots. 
They were approaching the region were reigns 

perpetual summer, 

Orleans. Louisiana had been ceded by France to Spain in 
1762, but did not really pass under the control of the Spanish 
until 1769. The existence of a French population attracted the 
wandering Acadians, and they were sent by the authorities to 
form settlements in Attakapas and Opelousas. Thej- afterward 
formed settlements on both sides of the Mississippi from the 
German Coast up to Baton Rouge, and even as high as Pointe 
Couple. Hence the name of Acadian Coast, which a portion of 
the banks of the river still bears. See Gayarre's History of 
Louisiana; The French Dominion, vol. ii. 



64 LONGFELLOW. 

Where through the Golden Coast, and groves of 
orange and citron, 
765 Sweeps with majestic curve the river away to the 
eastward. 

They, too, swerved from their course; and, enter- 
ing the Bayou of Plaquemine, 

Soon were lost in a maze of sluggish and devious 
waters, 

Which, like a network of steel, extended in every 
direction. 

Over their heads the towering and tenebrous 
boughs of the cypress 
770 Met in a dusky arch, and trailing mosses in mid- 
air 

Waved like banners that hang on the walls of an- 
cient cathedrals. 

Deathlike the silence seemed, and unbroken, save 
by the herons 

Home to their roosts in the cedar-trees returning 
at sunset. 

Or by the owl, as he greeted the moon with de- 
moniac laughter. 
775 Lovely the moonlight was as it glanced and gleamed 
on the water. 

Gleamed on the columns of cypress and cedar sus- 
taining the arches, 

Down through whose broken vaults it fell as 
through chinks in a ruin. 

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all 
things around them; 

And o'er their spirits there came a feeling of 
wonder and sadness, — 
780 Strange forebodings of ill, unseen and that cannot 
be compassed. 

As, at the tramp of a horse's hoof on the turf of 
the prairies. 



EVANGELINE. 65 

Far in advance are closed the leaves of the shrink- 
ing mimosa, 

So, at the hoof-beats of fate, with sad forebodings 
of evil, 

Shrinks and closes the heart, ere the stroke of 
doom has attained it. 
785 But Evangeline's heart was sustained by a vision, 
that faintly 

Floated before her eyes, and beckoned her on 
through the moonlight. 

It was the thought of her brain that assumed the 
shape of a phantom. 

Through those shadowy aisles had Gabriel wan- 
dered before her, 

And every stroke of the oar now brought him 
nearer and nearer, 

790 Then in his place, at the prow of the boat, rose 
one of the oarsmen, 

And, as a signal sound, if others like them perad- 
vonture 

Sailed on those gloomy and midnight streams, blew 
a blast on his bugle. 

Wild through the dark colonnades and corridors 
leafy the blast rang. 

Breaking the seal of silence and giving tongues to 
the forest. 
795 Soundless above them the banners of moss just 
stirred to the music. 

Multitudinous echoes awoke and died in the dis- 
tance. 

Over the watery floor, and beneath the reverber- 
ant branches; 

But not a voice replied ; no answer came from the 
darkness ; 
5 



66 LONGFELLOW. 

And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of 

pain was the silence. 
800 Then Evangeline slept; but the boatmen rowed 

through the midnight, 
Silent at times, then singing familiar Canadian 

boat-songs, 
Such as they sang of old on their own Acadian 

rivers, 
While through the night were heard the mysteri- 
ous sounds of the desert, 
Far off, — indistinct, — as of wave or wind in the 

forest, 
805 Mixed with the whoop of the crane and the roar 

of the grim alligator. 

Thus ere another noon they emerged from the 
shades ; and before them 

Lay, in the golden sun, the lakes of the Atcha- 
falaya. 

Water-lilies in myriads rocked on the slight un- 
dulations 

Made by the passing oars, and, resplendent in 
beauty, the lotus 
810 Lifted her golden crown above the heads of the 
boatmen. 

Faint was the air with the odorous breath of 
magnolia blossoms, 

And with the heat of noon ; and numberless syl- 
van islands, 

Fragrant and thickly embowered with blossoming 
hedges of roses, 

Near to whose shores they glided along, invited to 
slumber. 
815 Soon by the fairest of these their weary oars were 
suspended. 



EVANGELINE. 67 

Under the boughs of Wachita willows, that grew 
by the margin, 

Safely their boat was moored ; and scattered about 
on the greensward, 

Tired with their midnight toil, the weary travel- 
lers slumbered. 

Over them vast and high extended the cope of a 
cedar. 
820 Swinging from its great arms, the trumpet-flower 
and the grajjevine 

Hung their ladder of ropes aloft like the ladder of 
Jacob, 

On whose pendulous stairs the angels ascending, 
descending, 

Were the swift humming-birds, that flitted from 
blossom to blossom. 

Such was the vision Evangeline saw as she slum- 
bered beneath it. 
825 Filled was her heart with love, and the dawn of 
an opening heaven 

Lighted her soul in sleep with the glory of regions 
celestial. 

Nearer, ever nearer, among the numberless isl- 
ands. 

Darted a light, swift boat, that sped away o'er the 
water. 

Urged on its course by the sinewy arms of hunters 
and trappers. 
830 Northward its prow was turned, to the land of the 
bison and beaver. 

At the helm sat a youth, with countenance thought- 
ful and careworn. 

Dark and neglected locks overshadowed his brow, 
and a sadness 



68 LONGFELLOW. 

Somewhat beyond his years on his face was legi- 
bly written. 
Gabriel was it, who, weary with waiting, unhappy 
and restless, 
835 Sought in the Western wilds oblivion of self and 
of sorrow. 

Swiftly they glided along, close under the lee of 
the island. 

But by the opposite bank, and behind a screen of 
palmettos ; 

So that they saw not the boat, where it lay con- 
cealed in the willows ; 

All undisturbed by the dash of their oars, and un- 
seen, were the sleepers ; 
840 Angel of God was there none to awaken the slum- 
bering maiden. 

Swiftly they glided away, like the shade of a cloud 
on the prairie. 

After the sound of their oars on the tholes had died 
in the distance. 

As from a magic trance the sleepers awoke, and 
the maiden 

Said with a sigh to the friendly priest, " O Father 
Felician ! 
845 Something says in my heart that near me Gabriel 
wanders. 

Is it a foolish dream, an idle and vague supersti- 
tion? 

Or has an angel passed, and revealed the truth to 
my spirit?" 

Then, with a blush, she added, " Alas for my 
credulous fancy ! 

Unto ears like thine such words as these have no 
meaning." 
850 But made answer the reverend man, and he smiled 
as he answered, — 



E VANGELINE. 69 

"Daughter, thy words are not idle; nor are they 

to me without meaning. 
Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats 

on tlie surface 
Is as the tossing buoy, that betrays where the an- 
chor is hidden. 
Therefore trust to thy lieart, and to what the 

world calls illusions. 
855 Gabriel truly is near thee; for not far away to the 

southward, 
On the bands of the Teche, are the towns of St. 

Maur and St. Martin. 
There the long-wandering bride shall be given 

again to her bridegroom, 
There the long-absent pastor regain his flock and 

his sheepfold. 
Beautiful is the land, with its prairies and forests 

of fruit-trees; 
860 Under the feet a garden of flowers, and the bluest 

of heavens 
Bending above, and resting its dome on the walls 

of the forest. 
They who dwell there have named it the Eden of 

Louisiana." 

With these words of cheer they arose and con- 
tinued their journey. 

Softly the evening came. The sun from the west- 
ern horizon 
865 Like a magician extended his golden wand o'er 
the landscape; 

Twinkling vapors arose ; and sky and water and 
forest 

Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and 
mingled together. 



70 LONGFELLOW. 

Hanging between two skies, a cloud with edges of 

silver, 
Floated the boat, with its dripping oars, on the 

motionless water. 
S70 Filled was Evangeline's heart with inexpressible 

sweetness. 
Touched by the magic spell, the sacred fountains 

of feeling 
Glowed with the light of love, as the skies and 

waters around her. 
Then from a neighboring thicket the mocking-bird, 

wildest of singers. 
Swinging aloft on a willow spray that hung o'er 

the water, 
875 Shook from his little throat such floods of delirious 

music. 
That the whole air and the woods and the waves 

seemed silent to listen. 
Plaintive at first were the tones and sad ; then 

soaring to madness 
Seemed they to follow or guide the revel of frenzied 

Bacchantes. 
Single notes were then heard, in sorrowful, low 

lamentation ; 
8S0 Till, having gathered them all, he flung them 

abroad in derision. 
As when, after a storm, a gust of wind through the 

tree-tops 
Shakes down the rattling rain in a crystal shower 

on the branches. 
With such a prelude as this, and hearts that 

throbbed with emotion, 

878. The Bacchantes were worshippers of the god Bacchus, 
who in Greek mythology presided over the vine and its fruits. 
They gave themselves up to all manner of excess and their 
songs and dances were to wild, intoxicating measures. 



EVANGELINE. 71 

Slowly they entered the Teche, where it flows 
through the green Opelousas, 
885 And, through the amber air, above the crest of 
the woodland, 

Saw the column of smoke that arose from a neigh- 
boring dwelling; — 

Sounds of a horn they heard, and the distant low- 
ing of cattle. 



Near to the bank of the river, o'ershadowed by 
oaks, from whose branches 

Garlands of Spanish moss and of mystic mistletoe 
flaunted, 
890 Such as the Druids cut down with golden hatchets 
at Yule-tide, 

Stood, secluded and still, the house of the herds- 
man. A garden 

Girded it round about with a belt of luxuriant 
blossoms, 

Filling the air with fragrance. The house itself 
was of timbers 

Hewn from the cypress-tree, and carefully fitted 
together. 
895 Large and low was the roof ; and on slender col- 
umns supported. 

Rose- wreathed, vine-encircled, a broad and spa- 
cious veranda, 

Haunt of the humming-bird and the bee, extended 
around it. 

At each end of the house, amid the flowers of the 
garden, 

Stationed the dove-cots were, as love's perpetual 
symbol, 



72 LONGFELLOW. 

900 Scenes of endless wooing, and endless contentions 

of rivals. 
Silence reigned o'er the place. The line of shadow 

and sunshine 
Ran near the tops of the trees; but the house itself 

was in shadow, 
And from its chimney-top, ascending and slowly 

expanding 
Into the evening air, a thin blue column of smoke 

rose. 
905 In the rear of the house, from the garden gate, 

ran a pathway 
Through the great groves of oak to the skirts of 

the limitless prairie, 
Into whose sea of flowers the sun was slowly de- 
scending. 
Full in his track of light, like ships with shadowy 

canvas 
Hanging loose from their spars in a motionless 

calm in the tropics, 
910 Stood a cluster of trees, with tangled cordage of 

grapevines. 

Just where the woodlands met the flowery surf 

of the prairie. 
Mounted upon his horse, with Spanish saddle and 

stirrups, 
Sat a herdsman, arrayed in gaiters and doublet of 

deerskin. 
Broad and brown was the face that from under 

the Spanish sombrero 
915 Gazed on the peaceful scene, with the lordly look 

of its master. 
Round about him were numberless herds of kine, 

that were grazing; 



EVANGELINE. 73 

Quietly in the meadows, aad breathing the vapory 

freshness 
That uprose from the river, and spread itself over 

the landscape. 
Slowly lifting the horn that hung at his side, and 

expanding 
920 Fully his broad, deep chest, he blew a blast, that 

resounded 
Wildly and sweet and far, through the still damp 

air of the evening. 
Suddenly out of the grass the long white horns of 

the cattle 
Rose like flakes of foam on the adverse currents of 

ocean. 
Silent a moment they gazed, then bellowing rushed 

o'er the prairie, 
925 And the whole mass became a cloud, a shade in 

the distance. 
Then, as the herdsman turned to the house, 

through the gate of the garden 
Saw he the forms of the priest and the maiden ad- 
vancing to meet him. 
Suddenly down from his horse he sprang in amaze- 
ment, and forward 
Rushed with extended arms and exclamations of 

wonder; 
930 When they beheld his face, they recognized Basil 

the blacksmith. 
Hearty his welcome was, as he leu his guests to the 

garden. 
There in an arbor of roses with endless question 

and answer 
Gave they vent to their hearts, and renewed their 

friendly embraces, 
Laughing and weeping by turns, or sitting sUent 

and thoughtful. 



74 LONGFELLOW. 

935 Thoughtful, for Gabriel came not; and now dark 
doubts and misgivings 

Stole o'er the maiden's heart; and Basil, some- 
what embarrassed, 

Broke the silence and said, " If you came by the 
Atchafalaya, 

How have you nowhere encountered my Gabriel's 
boat on the bayous? " 

Over Evangeline's face at the words of Basil a 
shade passed. 
940 Tears came into her eyes, and she said, with a 
tremulous accent, 

*' Gone? is Gabriel gone?" and, concealing her 
face on his shoulder. 

All her o'erburdened heart gave way, and she 
wept and lamented. 

Then the good Basil said, — and his voice grew 
blithe as he said it, — 

" Be of good cheer, my child; it is only to-day he 
departed. 
945 Foolish boy ! he has left me alone with my herds 
and my horses. 

Moody and restless grown, and tried and troubled, 
his spirit 

Could no longer endure the calm of this quiet ex- 
istence. 

Thinking ever of thee, uncertain and sorrowful 
ever. 

Ever silent, or speaking only of thee and his troub- 
les, 
950 He at length had become so tedious to men and 
to maidens. 

Tedious even to me, that at length I bethought 
me, and sent him 

Unto the town of Adayes to trade for mules with 
the Spaniards. 



EVANGELINE. 75 

Thence he will follow the Indian trails to the 

Ozark Mountains, 
Hunting for furs in the forests, on rivers trapping 

the beaver. 
955 Therefore be of good cheer ; we will follow the 

fugitive lover; 
He is not far on his way, and the Fates and the 

streams are against him. 
Up and away to-morrow, and through the red dew 

of the morning, 
We will follow him fast, and bi'ing him back to 

his prison." 

Then glad voices were heard, and up from the 
banks of the river, 
960 Borne aloft on his comrades' arms, came Mi- 
chael the fiddler. 

Long under Basil's roof had he lived like a god 
on Olympus, 

Having no other care than dispensing music to 
mortals. 

Far renowned was he for his silver locks and his 
fiddle. 

"Long live Michael," they cried, "our brave Aca- 
dian minstrel! " 
965 As they bore him aloft in triumphal procession ; 
and straightway 

Father Felician advanced with Evangeline, greet- 
ing the old man 

Kindly and oft, and recalling the past, while Basil, 
enraptured. 

Hailed with hilarious joy his old companions and 
gossips, 

Laughing loud and long, and embracing mothers 
and daughters. 



76 LONGFELLOW. 

970 Much they marvelled to see the wealth of the 

ci-devant blacksmith, 
All his domains and his herds, and his patriarchal 

demeanor ; 
Much they marvelled to hear his tales of the soil 

and the climate, 
And of the prairies, whose numberless herds were 

his who would take them ; 
Each one thought in his heart, that he, too, would 

go and do likewise. 
975 Thus they ascended the steps, and, crossing the 

breezy veranda, 
Entered the hall of the house, where already the 

supper of Basil 
Waited his late return ; and they rested and feasted 

together. 

Over the joyous feast the sudden darkness de- 
scended. 

All was silent without, and, illuming the landscape 
with silver, 
980 Fair rose the dewy moon and the myriad stars ; 
but within doors, 

Brighter than these, shone the faces of friends in 
the glimmering lamplight. 

Then from his station aloft, at the head of the 
table, the herdsman 

Poured forth his heart and his wine together in 
endless profusion. 

Lighting his pipe, that was filled with sweet Nat- 
chitoches tobacco, 
985 Thus he spake to his guests, who listened, and 
smiled as they listened : — 

" Welcome once more, my friends, who long have 
been friendless and homeless, 



EVANGELINE. 77 

Welcome once more to a home, that is better per- 
chance than the old one! 

Here no hungry winter congeals our blood like 
the rivers ; 

Here no stony ground provokes the wrath of the 
farmer ; 
990 Smoothly the ploughshare runs through the soil, 
as a keel through the water. 

All the year round the orange-groves are in blos- 
som; and grass grows 

More in a single night than a whole Canadian 
summer. 

Here, too, numberless herds run wild and un- 
claimed in the prairies ; 

Here, too, lands may be had for the asking, and 
forests of timber 
995 With a few blows of the axe are hewn and framed 
into houses. 

After your houses are built, and your fields are 
yellow with harvests, 

No King George of England shall drive you away 
from your homesteads. 

Burning your dwellings and barns, and stealing 
your farms and your cattle." 

Speaking these words, he blew a wrathful cloud 
from his nostrils, 
1000 While his huge, brown hand came thundering 
down on the table, 

So that the guests all started; and Father Feli- 
cian, astounded. 

Suddenly paused, with a pinch of snuff half-way 
to his nostrils. 

But the brave Basil resumed, and his words were 
milder and gayer, — 

" Only beware of the fever, my friends, beware 
of the fever! 



78 LONGFELLOW. 

1005 For it is not like that of our cold Acadian cli- 
mate, 

Cured by wearing a spider hung round one's neck 
in a nutshell! " 

Then there were voices heard at the door, and 
footsteps approaching 

Sounded upon the stairs and the floor of the 
breezy veranda. 

It was the neighboring Creoles and small Acadian 
planters, 
10 10 Who had been summoned all to the house of 
Basil the herdsuian. 

Merry the meeting was of ancient comrades and 
neighboi's : 

Friend clasped friend in his arms ; and they who 
before were as strangers, 

Meeting in exile, became straightway as friends 
to each other, 

Drawn by the gentle bond of a common country 
together. 
I015 But in the neighboring hall a strain of music, 
proceeding 

From the accordant strings of Michael's melodi- 
ous fiddle, 

Broke up all further speech. Away, like chil- 
dren delighted. 

All things forgotten beside, they gave themselves 
to the maddening 

Whirl of the dizzy dance, as it swept and 
swayed to the music, 
1020 Dreamlike, with beaming eyes and the rush of 
fluttering garments. 

Meanwhile, apart, at the head of the hall, the 
priest and the herdsman 



E VANGELINE. 79 

Sat, conversing together of past and present and 
future ; 

While Evangeline stood like one entranced, for 
within her 

Olden memories rose, and loud in the midst of 
the music 
1025 Heard she the sound of the sea, and an irrepress- 
ible sadness 

Came o'er her heart, and unseen she stole forth 
into the garden. 

Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall 
of the forest, 

Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. 
On the river 

Fell here and there through the branches a trem- 
ulous gleam of the moonlight, 
1030 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened 
and devious spirit. 

Nearer and round about her, the manifold flow- 
ers of the garden 

Poured out their souls in odors, that were their 
prayers and confessions 

Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent 
Carthusian. 

Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with 
shadows and night-dews, 
1035 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and 
the magical moonlight 

1033. The Carthusians are a monastic order founded in the 
twelfth century, perhaps the most severe in its rules of all 
similar societies. Almost perpetual silence is one of the vows; 
the monks can talk together but once a week; the labor re- 
quired of them is unremitting and the discipline exceedingly 
rigid. The first monastery was established at Chartreux near 
Grenoble in France, and the Latinized form of the name has 
given us the word Carthusian. 



80 LONGFELLOW. 

Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable 

longings, 
As, through the garden gate, and beneath the 

shade of the oak-trees. 
Passed she along the path to the edge of the 

measureless prairie. 
Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and 

fire-flies 
1040 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and in- 
finite numbers. 
Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in 

the heavens, 
Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to 

marvel and worship. 
Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls 

of that temple, 
As if a hand had appeared and written upon 

them, " Upharsin." 
1045 And the soul of the maiden, between the stars 

and the fire-flies. 
Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel! O 

my beloved! 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot be- 
hold thee? 
Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 

does not reach me? 
Ah! how often thy feet have trod this path to 

the prairie! 
1050 Ah! how often thine eyes have looked on the 

woodlands around me! 
Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from 

labor. 
Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me 

in thy slumbers! 
When shall these eyes behold, these arms be 

folded about thee? " 



EVANGELINE. 81 

Loud and sudden and near the note of a wliip- 

poorwill sounded 
1055 Like a flute in the woods; and anon, through the 

neighboring tliickets, 
Farther and farther away it floated and dropped 

into silence. 
"Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular 

caverns of darkness ; 
And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, 

' ' To-morrow 1 ' ' 

Bright rose the sun next day ; and all the flow- 
ers of the garden 
1060 Bathed his shining feet with their tears, and 
anointed his tresses 

With the delicious balm that they bore in their 
vases of crystal. 

" Farewell 1 " said the priest, as he stood at the 
shadowy threshold; 

" See that you bring us the Prodigal Son from 
his fasting and famine, 

And, too, the Foolish Virgin, who slept when the 
bridegroom was coming." 
1065 " Farewell!" answered the maiden, and, smiling, 
with Basil descended 

Down to the river's brink, where the boatmen al- 
ready were waiting. 

Thus beginning their journey with morning, and 
sunshine, and gladness, 

Swiftly they followed the flight of him who was 
speeding before them. 

Blown by the blast of fate like a dead leaf over 
the desert. 
1070 Not that day, nor the next, nor yet the day that 
succeeded, 
6 



82 LONGFELLO W. 

Found they trace of his course, in lake or forest 

or river, 
Nor, after many days, had they found him; but 

vague and uncertain 
Rumors alone were their guides through a wild 

and desolate country ; 
Till, at the little inn of the Spanish town of 

Adayes, 
1075 Weary and worn, they alighted, and learned from 

the garrulous landlord. 
That on the day before, with horses and guides 

and companions, 
Gabriel left the village, and took the road of the 

prairies. 

IV. 

Far in the West there lies a desert land, where 
the mountains 

Lift, through perpetual snows, their lofty and lu- 
minous summits. 
1080 Down from their jagged, deep ravines, where the 
gorge, like a gateway. 

Opens a passage rude to the wheels of the emi- 
grant's wagon, 

Westward the Oregon flows and the Walleway 
and Owyhee. 

Eastward, with devious course, among the Wind- 
river Mountains, 

Through the Sweet-water Valley precipitate 
leaps the Nebraska; 
1085 And to the south, from Fontaine-qui-bout and 
the Spanish sierras, 

Fretted with sands and rocks, and swept by the 
wind of the desert, 

Numberless torrents, with ceaseless sound, de- 
scend to the ocean, 



E VANGELINE. 83 

Like the great chords of a harp, in loud and sol- 
emn vibrations. 

Spreading between these streams are the won- 
drous, beautiful prairies, 
1090 Billowy bays of grass ever rolling in shadow and 
sunshine, 

Bright with luxuriant clusters of roses and pur- 
ple amorphas. 

Over them wandered the buffalo herds, and the 
elk and the roebuck; 

Over them wandered the wolves, and herds of 
riderless horses; 

Fires that blast and blight, and winds that are 
weary with travel; 
1095 Over them wander the scattered tribes of Ishma- 
el's children. 

Staining the desert with blood ; and above their 
terrible war-trails 

Circles and sails aloft, on pinions majestic, the 
vulture. 

Like the implacable soul of a chieftain slaugh- 
tered in battle, 

By invisible stairs ascending and scaling the 
heavens. 
1 100 Here and there rise smokes from the camps of 
these savage marauders ; 

Here and there rise groves from the margins of 
swift-running rivers; 

And the grim, taciturn bear, the anchorite monk 
of the desert, 

Climbs down their dark ravines to dig for roots 
by the brook-side. 

And over all is the sky, the clear and crystalline 
heaven, 
1 105 Like the protecting hand of God inverted above 
them. 



84 LONGFELLO W. 

Into this wonderful land, at the base of the 

Ozark Mountains, 
Gabriel far had entered, with hunters and trap- 
pers behind him. 
Day after day, with their Indian guides, the 

maiden and Basil 
Followed his flying steps, and thought each day 

to o'ertake him. 
mo Sometimes they saw, or thought they saw, the 

smoke of his camp-fire 
Rise in the morning air from the distant plain; 

but at nightfall, 
When they had reached the place, they found 

only embers and ashes. 
And, though their hearts were sad at times and 

their bodies were weary, 
Hope still guided them on, as the magic Fata 

Morgana 
1 115 Showed them her lakes of light, that retreated 
and vanished before them. 

Once, as they sat by their evening fire, there 

silently entered 
Into the little camp an Indian woman, whose 

features 
Wore deep traces of sorrow, and patience as 

great as her sorrow. 

1114. The Italian name for a meteoric phenomenon nearly 
allied to a mirage, witnessed in the Straits of Messina, and less 
frequently elsewhere, and consisting in the appearance in the air 
over the sea of the objects which are upon the neighboring 
coasts. In the southwest of our own country, the mirage is 
very common, of lakes which stretch before the tired trav^eller, 
and the deception is so great that parties have sometimes 
beckoned to other travellers, who seemed to be wading knee- 
deep, to come over to them where dry land was. 



EVANGELINE. 85 

She was a Shawnee woman returning home to 

her people, 
1 1 20 Fi'om the fai'-off hunting-grounds of the cruel 

Camanches, 
Where her Canadian husband, a Coureur-des- 

Bois, had been murdered. 
Touched were their hearts at her story, and 

warmest and friendliest welcome 
Gave they, with words of cheer, and she sat and 

feasted among them 
On the buffalo-meat and the venison cooked on 

the embers. 
1 125 But when their meal was done, and Basil and all 

his companions. 
Worn with the long day's march and the chase 

of the deer and the bison, 
Stretched themselves on the ground, and slept 

where the quivering fire-light 
Flashed on their swarthy cheeks, and their forms 

wrapped up in their blankets, 
Then at the door of Evangeline's tent she sat 

and rej^eated 
1 1 30 Slowly, with soft, low voice, and the charm of 

her Indian accent. 
All the tale of her love, with its pleasures, and 

pains, and reverses. 
Much Evangeline wept at the tale, and to know 

that another 
Hapless heart like her own had loved and had 

been disappointed. 
Moved to the depths of her soul by pity and 

woman's compassion, 
1 135 Yet in her son'ow pleased that one who had suf- 
fered was near her. 
She in turn related her love and all its disasters. 



86 LONGFELLOW. 

Mute with wonder the Shawnee sat, and when 
she bad ended 

Still was mute; but at length, as if a mysterious 
horror 

Passed tbi-ough her brain, she spake, and re- 
peated the tale of the Mowis; 
1 140 Mowis, the bridegroom of snow, who won and 
wedded a maiden. 

But, when the morning came, arose and passed 
from the wigwam, 

Fading and melting away and dissolving into the 
sunshine, 

Till she beheld him no more, though she followed 
far into the forest. 

Then, in those sweet, low tones, that seemed like 
a weird incantation, 
1 145 Told she the tale of the fair Lilinau, who was 
wooed by a phantom, 

That, through the pines o'er her father's lodge, 
in the hush of the twilight, 

Breathed like the evening wind, and whispered 
love to the maiden. 

Till she followed his green and waving plume 
through the forest. 

And nevermore returned, nor was seen again by 
her people. 
1 150 Silent with wonder and strange surprise, Evan- 
geline listened 

To the soft flow of her magical words, till the re- 
gion around her 

Seemed like enchanted ground, and her swarthy 
guest the enchantress. 

Slowly over the tops of the Ozark Mountains the 
moon rose, 

1145. The story of Lilinau and other Indian legends will be 
found in H. R. Schoolcraft's Alyic liescarches. 



EVANGELINE. 87 

Lighting the little tent, and with a mysterious 

splendor 
1 155 Touching the sombre leaves, and embracing and 

filling the woodland. 
With a delicious sound the brook rushed by, and 

the branches 
Swayed and sighed overhead in scarcely audible 

whispers. 
Filled with the thoughts of love was Evangeline's 

heart, but a secret. 
Subtile sense crept in of pain and indefinite ter- 
ror, 
1 160 As the cold, poisonous snake creeps into the nest 

of the swallow. 
It was no earthly fear. A breath from the region 

of spirits 
Seemed to float in the air of night; and she felt 

for a moment 
That, like the Indian maid, she, too, was pursuing 

a phantom. 
With this thought she slept, and the fear and the 

phantom had vanished. 

1 165 Early upon the morrow the march was re- 
sumed; and the Shawnee 

Said, as they journeyed along, — " On the west- 
ern slope of these mountains 

Dwells in his little village the Black Robe chief 
of the Mission. 

Much he teaches the people, and tells them of 
Mary and Jesus ; 

Loud laugh their hearts with joy, and weep with 
pain, as they hear him." 
1 170 Then, with a sudden and secret emotion, Evange- 
line answered, 



88 LONGFELLO W. 

" Let us go to the Mission, for there good tidings 

await us! " 
Thither they turned their steeds ; and behind a 

spur of the mountains, 
Just as the sun went down, they heard a murmur 

of voices, 
And in a meadow green and broad, by the bank 

of a river, 
1 1 75 Saw the tents of the Christians, the tents of the 

Jesuit Mission. 
Under a towering oak, that stood in the midst of 

the village, 
Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children. A 

crucifix fastened 
High on the trunk of the tree, and overshadowed 

by grapevines, 
Looked with its agonized face on the multitude 

kneeling beneath it. 
1180 This was their rural chapel. Aloft, through the 

intricate arches 
Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their ves- 
pers. 
Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and 

sighs of the branches. 
Silent, with heads uncovered, the travellers, 

nearer approaching, 
Knelt on the swarded floor, and joined in the 

evening devotions. 
1 185 But when the service was done, and the benedic- 
tion had fallen 
Forth from the hands of the priest, like seed 

from the hands of the sower, 
Slowly the reverend man advanced to the 

strangers, and bade them 
Welcome; and when they replied, he smiled 
with benignant expression. 



EVANGELINE. 89 

Hearing the homelike sounds of his mother- 
tongue in the forest, 
1 190 And, with words of kindness, conducted them 
into his wigwam. 
There upon mats and skins they reposed, and on 
cakes of the maize-ear 

Feasted, and slaked their thirst from the water- 

1 

gourd of the teacher. 
Soon was their story told; and the priest with 

solemnity answered: — 
"Not six suns have risen and set since Gabriel, 

seated 
1 195 On this mat by my side, where now the maiden 

reposes, 
Told me this same sad tale; then arose and con- 
tinued his journey! " 
Soft was the voice of the priest, and he spake 

with an accent of kindness; 
But on Evangeline's heart fell his words as in 

winter the snow-flakes 
Fall into some lone nest from which the birds 

have departed. 
1200 " Far to the north he has gone," continued the 

priest; " but in autumn, 
When the chase is done, will return again to 

the Mission." 
Then Evangeline said, and her voice was meek 

and submissive, 
" Let me remain with thee, for my soul is sad 

and afflicted." 
So seemed it wise and well unto all; and betimes 

on the morrow, 
1205 Mounting his Mexican steed, with his Indian 

guides and companions, 
Homeward Basil returned, and Evangeline 

stayed at the Mission. 



90 LONGFELLOW. 

Slowly, slowly, slowly the days succeeded each 

other, — 
Days and weeks and months ; and the fields of 

maize that were springing 
Green from the ground when a stranger she 

came, now waving above her, 
I2IO Lifted their slender shafts, with leaves inter- 
lacing, and forming 
Cloisters for mendicant crow and granaries 

pillaged by squirrels. 
Then in the golden weather the maize was 

husked, and the maidens 
Blushed at each blood-red ear, for that betokened 

a lover. 
But at the crooked laughed, and called it a thief 

in the corn-field. 
121 5 Even the blood-red ear to Evangeline brought 

not her lover. 
" Patience! " the priest would say ; " have faith, 

and thy prayer will be answered! 
Look at this vigorous plant that lifts its head 

from the meadow. 
See how its leaves are turned to the north, as 

true as the magnet ; 
It is the compass-flower, that the finger of God 

has planted 
I220 Here in the houseless wild, to direct the trav- 
eller's journey 
Over the sea-like, pathless, limitless waste of 

the desert. 
Such in the soul of man is faith. The blossoms 

of passion, 

1219. Silphium laciniatum or compass-plant is found on the 
prairies of Michigan and Wisconsin and to the south and west, 
and is said to present the edges of the lower leaves due north and 
south. 



EVANGELINE. 91 

Gay and luxuriant flowers, are brighter and 

fuller of fragrance, 
But tliey beguile us, and lead us astray, and 

their odor is deadly. 
1225 Only this humble plant can guide us here, and 

hereafter 
Crown us with asphodel flowers, that are wet 

with the dews of nepenthe." 

So came the autumn, and passed, and the 

winter, — yet Gabriel came not; 
Blossomed the opening spring, and the notes of 

the I'obin and bluebird 
Sounded sweet upon wold and in wood, yet 

Gabriel came not. 
1230 But on the breath of the summer winds a rumor 

was wafted 
Sweeter than song of bird, or hue or odor of 

blossom. 
Far to the north and east, it said, in the Michi- 
gan forests, 
Gabriel had his lodge by the banks of the 

Saginaw River. 
And, with returning guides, that sought the lakes 

of St. Lawrence, 
1235 Saying a sad farewell, Evangeline went from the 

Mission. 
When over weary ways, by long and perilous 

marches, 

1226. In early Greek poetry the asphodel meadows were 
haunted by the shades of heroes. See Homer's Odyssey, xxiv. 
13, where Pope translates : — 

" In ever flowering meads of asphodel." 

The asphodel is of the lily family, and is known also by the 
name king's spear. 



92 LONGFELLOW. 

She had attained at length the depths of the 

Michigan forests, 
Found she the hunter's lodge deserted and 
fallen to ruin! 

Thus did the long sad years glide on, and in 

seasons and places 
1240 Divers and distant far was seen the wandering 

maiden ; — 
Now in the Tents of Grace of the meek Moravian 

Missions, 
Now in the noisy camps and the battle-fields of 

the army, 
Now in secluded hamlets, in towns and populous 

cities. 
Like a phantom she came, and passed away un- 

remembered. 
1245 Fair was she and young, when in hope began the 

long journey ; 
Faded was she and old, when in disappoint- 
ment it ended. 
Each succeeding year stole something away from 

her beauty. 
Leaving behind it, broader and deeper, the 

gloom and the shadow. 
Then there appeared and spread faint streaks of 

gray o'er her forehead, 
1250 Dawn of another life, that broke o'er her earthly 

horizon. 
As in the eastern sky the first faint streaks of 

the morning. 

V. 

In that delightful land which is washed by the 

Delaware's waters, 
12-il. A rendering of the Moravian Gnadenhutten. 



EVANGELINE. 93 

Guarding in sylvan shades the name of Penn tte 

apostle, 
Stands on the banks of its beautiful stream the 

city he founded. 
1255 There all the air is balm, and the peach is the 

emblem of beauty, 
And the streets still reecho the names of the 

trees of the forest, 
As if they fain would appease the Dryads whose 

haunts they molested. 
There from the troubled sea had Evangeline 

landed, an exile. 
Finding among the children of Penn a home and 

a country. 
1 260 There old Rene Leblanc had died ; and when he 

departed. 
Saw at his side only one of all his hundred de- 
scendants. 
Something at least there was in the friendly 

streets of the city, 
Something that spake to her heart, and made 

her no longer a stranger ; 
And her ear was pleased with the Thee and 

Thou of the Quakers, 
1265 For it recalled the past, the old Acadian country. 
Where all men were equal, and all were brothers 

and sisters. 
So, when the fruitless search, the disappointed 

endeavor. 
Ended, to recommence no more upon earth, un- 
complaining, 
Thither, as leaves to the light, were turned her 

thoughts and her footsteps. 

1256. The streets of Philadelphia, as is well known, are 
many of them, especiallj' those running east and west, named 
for trees, as Chestnut, Walnut, Locust, Spruce, Pine, etc.. 



94 LONGFELLO W. 

1270 As from a mountain's top the rainy mists of the 
morning 

Roll away, and afar we behold the landscape be- 
low us, 

Sun-illumined, with shining rivers and cities and 
hamlets, 

So fell the mists from her mind, and she saw the 
world far below her, 

Dark no longer, but all illumined with love; and 
the pathway 
1275 Which she had climbed so far, lying smooth and 
fair in the distance. 

Gabriel was not forgotten. Within her heart 
was his image, 

Clothed in the beauty of love and youth, as last 
she beheld him, 

Only more beautiful made by his deathlike sil- 
ence and absence. 

Into her thoughts of him time entered not, for 
it was not. 
1280 Overhira years had no power; he was not changed, 
but transfigured; 

He had become to her heart as one who is dead, 
and not absent; 

Patience and abnegation of self, and devotion to 
others. 

This was the lesson a life of trial and sorrow had 
taught her. 

So was her love diffused, but, like to some odor- 
ous spices, 
1285 Suffered no waste nor loss, though filling the air 
with aroma. 

Other hope had she none, nor wish in life, but 
to follow 

Meekly, with reverent steps, the sacred feet of 
her Saviour. 



EVANGELINE. 95 

Thus many years she lived as a Sister of Mercy; 

frequenting 
Lonely and wi-etched roofs in the crowded lanes 

of the city, 
1290 Where distress and want concealed themselves 

from the sunlight, 
Where disease and sorrow in garrets languished 

neglected. 
Night after night, when the world was asleep, as 

the watchman repeated 
Loud, through the gusty streets, that all was well 

in the city. 
High at some lonely window he saw the light of 

her taper. 
1295 Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow 
through the suburbs 
Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and 

fruits for the market, 
Met he that meek, pale face, returning home 

from its watchings. 

Then it came to pass that a pestilence fell' on 

the city, 
Presaged by wondrous signs, and mostly by flocks 

of wild pigeons, 
1300 Darkening the sun in their flight, with naught in 

their craws but an acorn. 
And, as the tides of the sea arise in the month of 

September, 
Flooding some silver stream, till it spreads to a 

lake in the meadow, 

1298. The year 1793 was long remembered as the year wlien 
yellow fever was a terrible pestilence in Philadelphia. Charles 
Brockden Brown made his novel of Arthur Merryn turn largely 
upon the incidents of the plague, which drove Brown away 
from home for a time. 



96 LONGFELLOW. 

So death flooded life, and, o'erflowing its natural 

margin. 
Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of 

existence. 
1305 Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to 

charm, the oppressor; 
But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his 

anger ; — 
Only, alas ! the poor, who had neither friends nor 

attendants, 
. Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the 

homeless. 
Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of 

meadows and woodlands; — 
1310 Now the city surrounds it; but still, with its gate- 
way and wicket 
Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls 

seem to echo 
Softly the words of the Lord: — " The poor ye 

always have with you." 
Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of 

Mercy. The dying 
Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to 

behold there 
13 1 5 Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead 

with splendor, 
Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints 

and apostles, 
Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a 

distance. 

1308. Philadeljihians have identified the old Friends' alms- 
house on Walnut Street, now no longer standing, as that in which 
Evangeline ministered to Gabriel, and so real was the story, 
that some even ventured to point out the graves of the two 
lovers. See Westcott's The Historic Mansions of Philadelphia, 
pp. 101, 102. 



EVANGELINE. 97 

Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city- 
celestial, 

Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits 
would enter. 

1320 Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, 

deserted and silent. 
Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of 

the almshouse. 
Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers 

in the garden, 
And she paused on her way to gather the fairest 

among them, 
That the dying once more might rejoice in their 

fragrance and beauty. 
1325 Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, 

cooled by the east- wind, 
Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from 

the belfry of Christ Church, 
While, intermingled with these, across the mead- 
ows were wafted 
Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes 

in their church at Wicaco. 
Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the 

hour on her spirit; 
1330 Something within her said, " At length thy trials 

are ended; " 

1328. The Swedes' church at Wicaco is still standing, the 
oldest in the city of Philadelphia, having been begun in 1698. 
Wicaco is within the city on the banks of the Delaware River. 
An interesting account of the old church and its historic asso- 
ciations will be found in Westcott's book just mentioned, pp. 
56-67. Wilson the ornithologist lies buried in the churchyard 
adjoining the charch. 
7 



98 LONGFELLOW. 

And, with light in her looks, she entered the 
chambers of sickness. 

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful at- 
tendants. 

Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, 
and in silence 

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and con- 
cealing their faces, 
1335 Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of 
snow by the roadside. 

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline 
entered, 

Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she 
passed, for her presence 

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the 
walls of a prison. 

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, 
the consoler, 
1340 Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed 
it forever. 

Many familiar forms had disappeared in the 
night time ; 

Vacant their places were, or filled already by 
strangers. 

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of 
wonder. 

Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, 
while a shudder 
1345 Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flow- 
erets dropped from her fingers, 

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and 
bloom of the morning. 

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such 
terrible anguish. 



EVANGELINE. 99 

That the dying heard it, and started up from 

then* pillows. 
On the pallet before her was stretched the form 

of an old man. 
1350 Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that 

shaded his temples ; 
But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for 

a moment 
Seemed to assume once more the forms of its 

earlier manhood; 
So are wont to be changed the faces of those who 

are dying. 
Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of 

the fever, 
1355 As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had be- 
sprinkled its portals. 
That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and 

pass over. 
Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his 

spirit exhausted 
Seemed to be sinking down through infinite 

depths in the darkness, 
Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking 

and sinking. 
1360 Then through those realms of shade, in multi- 
plied reverberations, 
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush 

that succeeded 
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and 

saint-like, 
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into 

silence. 
Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the 

home of his childhood; 



100 LONGFELLOW. 

1365 Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers 
among them, 

Village, and mountain, and woodlands ; and, 
walking under their shadow, 

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in 
his vision. 

Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted 
his eyelids, 

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt 
by his bedside. 
1370 Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the ac- 
cents unuttered 

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what 
his tongue would have spoken. 

Vainly he strove to rise ; and Evangeline, kneel- 
ing beside him. 

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her 
bosom. 

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly 
sank into darkness, 
1375 As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind 
at a casement. 

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and 

the sorrow, 
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied 

longing. 
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of 

patience! 
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head 

to her bosom, 
1380 Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, 

"Father, I thank thee!" 



EVANGELINE. 101 

Still stands the forest primeval; but far away 
from ita shadow, 

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers 
are sleeping. 

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic 
churchyard. 

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and 
unnoticed. 
1385 Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing be- 
side them. 

Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are 
at rest and forever. 

Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no 
longer are busy. 

Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have 
ceased from their labors. 

Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have com- 
pleted their journey! 

1390 Still stands the forest primeval ; but under the 

shade of its branches 
Dwells another race, with other customs and lan- 
guage. 
Only along the shore of the mournful and misty 

Atlantic 
Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers 

from exile 
Wandered back to their native land to die in its 

bosom. 
1395 In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are 

still busy ; 
Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their 

kirtles of homespun, 
And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's 

story, 



102 LONGFELLOW. 

While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, 

neighboring ocean 
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the 

wail of the forest. 



n. 

THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

[This poem, also vs^ritten in hexameters, has yet 
a lighter, quicker movement, due to the more play- 
ful character of the narrative. A slight change of 
accent in the first line prepares one for this livelier 
pace, and the reader will find that the lights and 
shades of the story use vphatever elasticity there is 
in the hexameter, crisp, varying lines alternating 
with the steady pulse of the dactyl. The poet 
has built upon a slight tradition which has come 
down to us from the days of the Plymouth settle- 
ment, a story which depicts in a succession of 
scenes the life of the Old Colony. In doing this 
he has not cared to follow explicitly the succes- 
sion of events, but has been true to the general 
history of the time and has in each picture copied 
faithfully the essential characteristics of the origi- 
nal. He has taken the somewhat dry and unimag- 
inative chronicles of the time and touched them 

1399. Observe the recurrence of the phrases with which the 
poem began. The effect is to impress upon the mind the minor 
tone of the story, leaving last upon the ear the key-note first 
struck. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 103 

with a poetic light and warmth, and the reader 
of this poem who resumes such a book as Dr. 
Yoimg's "Chronicles of the Pilgrims," will find 
the simple story of the early settlers to have 
gained in beauty. The poem was published in 
1858.] 

I. 

MILES STANDISH. 

In the Old Colony days, ia Plymouth the land 

of the Pilgrims, 
To and fro in a room of bis simple and primitive 

dwelling, 
Clad in doublet and bose, and boots of Cordovan 

leather, 
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the 

Puritan Captain. 
5 Buried in tbouglit be seemed, with bis bands be- 
hind bim, and pausing 
Ever and anon to behold bis glittering weapons of 

warfare, 
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the 

chamber, — 

1. The Old Colony is the name which has long been applied 
to that part of Massachusetts which was occupied by the Pl^'m- 
outh colonists whose first settlement was in 1620. Massachu- 
setts Bay was the name by which was known the later collection 
of settlements made about Boston and Salem. 

2. The first houses of the Pilgrims were of logs filled in with 
mortar and covered with thatch. 

3. Cordova in Spain was celebrated for a preparation of goat- 
skin which took the name of Cordovan. Hence came cordwain, 
or Spanish tanned goat-skin, and in England shoemakers are 
still often called cordwainers. In France, too, the same word 
gave cordonnier. 



104 LONGFELLOW. 

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword 

of Damascus, 
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical 

Arabic sentence, 
lo While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, 

musket, and matchlock. 
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and 

athletic. 
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles 

and sinews of iron; 
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard 

was already 
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes 

in November. 

8. The corselet was a light breast-plate of armor. One of 
Standish's grandsons is said to have been in possession of his coat- 
of-mail. His sword is in the cabinet of the Massachusetts Histori- 
cal Society. As "the identical sword-blade used by Miles 
Standish " is also in possession of the Pilgrim Societj' of Plym- 
outh, the antiquary may take his choice between them, or cred- 
it Standish with a change of weapons. Damascus blades are 
swords or ci meters presenting upon their surface a variegated 
appearance of watering, as white, silvery, or black veins in fine 
lines and fillets. Such engraved blades were common in the 
East, and the most famous came from Damascus; the exact 
secret of the workmanship has never been fully discovered in 
the West. 

10. Afowlintf-piece is a light gun for shooting birds; a match- 
lock was a musket, the lock of which held a match or piece of 
twisted rope prepared to retain fire. As late as 1687 match- 
locks were used instead of flint-locks, which had then come into 
general use. In Bradford and Winslow's Journal (Young's 
Chronicles of the PUyruus, p. 125), we are told of a party setting 
out "with every man his musket, sword, and corselet, under 
the conduct of Captain Miles Standish." That these muskets 
were matchlocks, appears from another passage in the same 
journal (p. 142): "Then we lighted all our matches and pre- 
pared ourselves, concluding that we were near their dwell- 
ings." 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 105 

15 Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and 
household companion, 

Writing with diligent sjjeed at a table of pine by 
the window; 

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon com- 
plexion. 

Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty 
thereof, as the captives 

Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, " Not 
Angles but Angels." 
20 Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the 
Mayflower. 

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe 
interrupting, 

15. Bradford, the historian of the Plymouth Plantation, says 
that John Alden, who was one of the Mayflower company, 
" was hired for a cooper, at Southampton, where the ship 
victualled; and being a hopeful j'oung man, was much de- 
sired, but left to his own liking to go or stay when he came 
here [to Plymouth, that is]; but he stayed and married here." 
In this picture of Miles Standish and John Alden, some have 
professed to see a miniature likeness to Oliver Cromwell and 
John Milton. 

18. The story of the first mission to heathen England is re- 
ferred to here. A monk named Gregorj', in the sixth century, 
passed through the slave-market at Rome, and there amongst 
other captives he saw three fair-complexioned and fair-haired 
boys, in striking contrast to the dusky captives about them. 
He asked whence they came, and was answered, "From Brit- 
ain," and that they were called Angli, which was the Latin 
form of the name by which thej' called themselves, and from 
which Anglo, England, and English are derived. "iVbw Anrjll 
sed Afiffeli,'" replied Gregory; "the}' have the face of angels, 
not of Angles, and they ought to be fellow heirs of heaven." 
Tears afterward, the story runs, when Gregory was pope, he 
remembered the fair captives, and sent St. Augustine to carry 
Christianity to them. The story wUl be found at length in E. 
A. Freeman's Old ErKjlhh Hi story for Children, n. 44. 



106 LONGFELLO W. 

Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Stand ish 

the Captain of Plymouth. 
" Look at these arms," he said, " the warlike 

weapons that hang here 
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade 

or inspection! 
25 This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in 

Flanders ; this breastplate, 
Well I remember the day ! once saved my life in a 

skirmish ; 
Here in front you can see the very dint of the 

bullet 
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arca- 

bucero. 
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones 

of Miles Standish 
30 Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in 

the Flemish morasses." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not 

up from his writing: 
" Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the 

speed of the bullet ; 
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield 

and our weapon! " 
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words 

of the stripling : 
35 " See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an 

arsenal hanging ; 

25. The history of Miles Standish is not ciearlv known, but 
he was a soUlier in the Low Countries during tlie defence of the' 
Netherlands against the Spanish power^ and the poet has made 
much of this little knowledge that we have. 

28. Arcabucero is Spanish for archer, and the same term 
passed over, as weapons changed, into a musketeer and gun- 
smith. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 107 

That is because I liave done it myself, and not 

left it to others. 
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an 

excellent adage; 
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens 

and your inkhorn. 
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invin- 
cible army, 
40 Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest 

and his matchlock, 
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and 

pillage. 
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my 

soldiers! " 
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, 

as the sunbeams 
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again 

in "a moment. 
45 Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain 

continued: 
" Look! you can see from this window my brazen 

howitzer planted 
High on the roof of the church, a preacher who 

speaks to the purpose, 

38. There is some uncertainty about the derivation of the 
word inkhorn. The usual interpretation refers to the custom of 
scribes carrying ink in a horn attached to their dress, but 
some etymologists make it a corruption from inlcern, the 
terminations erne and eron coming from the Saxon em, earn, a 
secret place to put anything in, inkern being thus a little vessel 
into which we put ink. 

39. The formation of the military company was due chiefly 
to the serious losses that befel the Pilgrims during the first 
winter, leading them to make careful provision against sur- 
prises and attacks from the Indians. 

47. One of the earliest structures raised by the Pilgrims was 



108 LONGFELLO W. 

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresisti- 
ble logic, 

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts 
of the heathen. 
50 Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the 
Indians ; 

Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they 
try it the better, — 

Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, 
or pow-wow, 

Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Toka- 
mahamon I " 

Long at the window he stood, and wistfully 
gazed on the landscape, 
55 Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath 
of the east- wind, 
Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue 

rim of the ocean. 
Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows 

and sunshine. 
Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those 

on the landscaj^e. 
Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was 
subdued with emotion, 
60 Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he pro- 
ceeded : 

a platform upon the hill overlooking; the settlement, where 
they mounted live guns. They had also a common house for 
rendezvous, nineteen feet square, but the planting of guns upon 
the log-built meeting-house belongs to a later date. 

52. The sagamore was an Indian chief of the subordinate 
class; the sachem a principal chief; the pow-wow a medicine 
man or conjuror. 

53. Names of Indians who are mentioned iu the early chron- 
icles. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 109 

" Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies huried 

Rose Standish ; 
Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the 

wayside 1 
She was the first to die of all who came in the 

Mayflower ! 
Green above her is growing the field of wheat we 

have sown there, 
6$ Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves 

of our people, 
Lest they should count them and see how many 

already have perished ! " 
Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, 

and was thoughtful. 

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, 
and among them 
Prominent three, distinguished aUke for bulk and 
for binding ; 
JO Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries 
of Caesar 



64. The dead were buried on a bluff bj' the water-side during 
that first terrible winter, and the marks of burial were care- 
fully effaced, lest the Indians should discover how the colony' 
had been weakened. The tradition is preserved in Holmes's 
Annals. 

70. The elaborate title of Standish's military book was : 
" Militarie Discipline: or the Young Artillery Man, Wherein is 
Discoursed and Shown the Postures both of Musket and Pike, 
the Exactest way, &c.. Together with the Exercise of the Foot 
in their Motions, with much variety: As also, diverse and sev- 
eral Forms for the Imbatteling small or great Bodies demon- 
strated by the number of a single Company with their Reduce- 
ments. Very necessarj' for all such as are Studious in the Art 
Militarj'. Whereunto is also added the Postures and Bene- 
ficiall Use of the Halfe-Pike joyned with the Musket. With 



110 LONGFELLOW. 

Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Golduige of 
London, 

And, as if guarded by these, between them was 
standing the Bible. 

Musing a moment before them. Miles Standish 
paused, as if doubtful 

Which of the three he should choose for his con- 
solation and comfort, 
75 Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous 
campaigns of the Romans, 

Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent 
Christians. 

Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponder- 
ous Roman, 

Seated himself at the window, and opened the 
book, and in silence 

Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumb- 
marks thick on the margin, 
80 Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle 
was hottest, 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 
pen of the stripling, 

Busily writing epistles important, to go by the 
Mayflower, 

Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, 
God willing! 

the way to draw up the Swedish Brigade. By Colonel William 
Barriffe." Barriffe was a Puritan, and added to his title-page : 
" Psalmus 144: 1. Blessed be the Lord my Strength which 
teachetli my hands to warre and my lingers to fight." 

71. Golding was a voluminous translator, and his translation 
of Ovid's Meta/norphoses was highly regarded. He was pat- 
ronized by Sir Philip Sidney. 

82. The Mayflower began her return voyage April 5, 1G21. 
Not a single one of the emigrants returned in her, in spite of the 
" terrible winter." 



CO UR TSHIP OF MILES STANDISU. 1 1 1 

Homeward bound with the tidings of all that ter- 
rible winter, 
85 Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of 
Priscilla, 

Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan 
maiden Priscilla! 



II. 

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 

pen of the stripling, 
»0r an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of 

the Captain, 
Reading the marvellous words and achievements 

of Julius Cfesar. 
90 After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his 

hand, palm downwards. 
Heavily on the page: " A wonderful man was this 

Csesar! 
You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here is 

a fellow 
Who could both write and fight, and in both was 

equally skilful ! ' ' 
Straightway answered and spake John Alden, the 

comely, the youthful: 
95 " Yes, he was equally skilled, as you say, with 

his pen and his weapons. 
Somewhere have I read, but where I forget, he 

could dictate 
Seven letters at once, at the same time writing his 

memoirs." 

85. Among the names of the Mayflower company are those 
of "Mr. William Mullines and his wife, and 2 children, Joseph 
and Priscila; and a servant, Robart Carter." 



112 LONGFELLOW. 

" Truly," continued the Captain, not heeding or 
hearing the other, 

" Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Cae- 
sar! 
100 Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian vil- 
lage. 

Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right 
when he said it. 

Twice was he married before he was twenty, and 
many times after; 

Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand 
cities he conquered; 

He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself ha% re- 
corded ; 
105 Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator 
Brutus ! 

Now, do you know what he did on a certain oc- 
casion in Flanders, 

When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the 
front giving way too. 

And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so 
closely together 

There was no room for their swords? Why, he 
seized a shield from a soldier, 
1 10 Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and 
commanded the captains, 

100. " In his journey, as he was crossing the Alps and pass- 
ing by a small village of the barbarians with but few inhab- 
itants, and those wretchedly poor, his companions asked the 
question among themselves by way of mockery if there were 
any canvassing for offices there; any contention which should 
be uppermost, or feuds of great men one against another. 
To which CiEsar made answer seriously, " For my part I had 
rather be the first man among these fellows, than the second 
man in Rome." Plutarch's Life of Ccesai; A. H. Clough's 
translation. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 113 

Calling on each by bis name, to order forward 

the ensigns; 
Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for 

their weapons ; 
So he won the day, the battle of soraething-or- 

other. 
That 's what I always say; if you wish a thing to 

be well done, 
115 You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to 

others! " 

All was silent again; the Captain continued his 
reading. 

Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying 
pen of the stripling 

Writing epistles important to go next day by the 
Mayflower, 

Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan 
maiden Priscilla; 
120 Every sentence began or closed with the name of 
Priscilla, 

Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the 
secret, 

Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the 
name of Priscilla! 

Finally closing his book, with a bang of the pon- 
derous cover. 

Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier ground- 
ing his musket, 
125 Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the 
Captain of Plymouth : 

" When you have finished your work, I have 
something important to tell you. 

113. The account of this battle will be found in Ccesar's Com- 
mentaries, book II. ch. 10. 



114 LONGFELLOW. 

Be not however in baste; I can wait; I shall not 

be impatient! " 
Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last 

of his letters, 
Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful 

attention: 
130 " Speak ; for whenever you speak, I am always 

ready to listen, 
Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles 

Standish." 
Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, 

and culling his phrases : 
" 'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the 

Scriptures. 
This I have said before, and again and again I re- 
peat it ; 
135 Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and 

say it. 
Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary 

and dreary; 
Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of 

friendship. 
Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the 

maiden Priscilla. 
• She is alone in the world; her father and mother 

and brother 
140 Died in the winter together ; I saw her going and 

coming, 
Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed 

of the dying, 

139. "Mr. Molines, and his wife, his sone and his servant, 
dyed the first winter. Only his daughter Priscila survived 
and married with Jolin Alden, who are botii living and liave 
11 children." Bradford's History of Plymouth Plantation, p. 
452. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 115 

Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to my- 
self, that if ever 
There were angels on earth, as there are angels in 

heaven. 
Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose 

name is Priscilla 
145 Holds in my desolate life the place which the 

other abandoned. 
Long have I cherished the thought, but never have 

dared to reveal it, 
Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for 

the most part. 
Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of 

Plymouth, 
Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words 

but of actions, 
150 Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart 

of a soldier. 
Not in these words, you know, but this in short is 

my meaning ; 
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases. 
You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in ele- 
gant language. 
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings 

and wooings of lovers, 
155 Such as you think best adapted to win the heart 

of a maiden." 

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair- 

haii-ed, taciturn stripling, 
All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, 

bewildered, 
Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject 

with lightness. 
Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand 

still in his bosom, 



116 LONGFELLOW. 

l6o Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken 
by lightning, 

Thus made answer and spake, or rather stam- 
mered than answered: 

" Such a message as that, I am sure I should man- 
gle and mar it; 

If you would have it well done, — I am only re- 
peating your maxim, — 

You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to 
others! " 
165 But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn 
from his purpose, 

Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Cap- 
tain of Plymouth: 

" Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to 
gainsay it; 

But we must use it discreetly, and not waste 
powder for nothing. 

Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of 
phrases. 
170 I can march up to a fortress and summon the place 
to surrender. 

But march up to a woman with such a proposal, 
I dare not. 

I 'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the 
mouth of a cannon. 

But of a thundering ' No ! ' point-blank from the 
mouth of a woman. 

That I confess I 'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed 
to confess it! 
175 So you must grant my request, for you are an 
elegant scholar, 

Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turn- 
ing of phrases." 

Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluc- 
tant and doubtful, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 117 

Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, 

lie added : 
" Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is 

the feeling that prompts me ; 
1 80 Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name 

of our friendship! " 
Then made answer John Alden : " The name of 

friendship is sacred ; 
What you demand in that name, I have not the 

power to deny you! " 
So the strong will prevailed, subduing and mould- 
ing the gentler, 
Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went 

on his errand. 



III. 

THE lover's errand. 

185 So the strong will prevailed, and Alden went on 
his errand, 

Out of the street of the village, and into the paths 
of the forest, 

Into the tranquil woods, where bluebirds and rob- 
ins were building 

Towns in the populous trees, with hanging gar- 
dens of verdure, 

Peaceful, aerial cities of joy and affection and 
freedom. 
190 All around him was calm, but within him commo- 
tion and conflict, 

Love contending with friendship, and self with 
each generous impulse. 

188. Compare the populous nests in Evangeline, 1. 136. In 
the hanging gardens of verdure there is reference to the famous 
hanging gardens of Babylon. 



118 LONGFELLOW. 

To and fro in his breast his thoughts were heav- 
ing and dashing, 

As in a foundering ship, with every roll of the ves- 
sel, 

Washes the bitter sea, the merciless surge of the 
ocean ! 
195 "Must I relinquish it all," he cried with a wild 
lamentation, — 

"Must I relinquish it all, the joy, the hope, the 
illusion ? 

Was it for this I have loved, and waited, and wor- 
shipped in silence? 

Was it for this I have followed the flying feet and 
the shadow 

Over the wintry sea, to the desolate shores of New 
England ? 
200 Truly the heart is deceitful, and out of its depths 
of corruption 

Rise, like an exhalation, the misty phantoms of 
passion; 

Angels of light they seem, but are only delusions 
of Satan. 

All is clear to me now; I feel it, I see it distinctly! 

This is the hand of the Lord; it is laid upon me in 
anger, 
205 For I have followed too much the heart's desires 
and devices, 

Worshipping Astaroth blindly, and impious idols 
of Baal. 

This is the cross I must bear; the sin and the swift 
retribution." 

206. Astaroth, in the Old Testament Scripture, is the form 
used for the principal female diviaity, as Baal of the principal 
male divinity of the Phoenicians. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STAN DISH. 119 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden 
went on his errand ; 

Crossing the brook at the ford, where it brawled 
over pebble and shallow, 
2IO Gathering still, as he went, the Mayflowers bloom- 
ing around him, 

Fragrant, filling the air with a strange and won- 
derful sweetness. 

Children lost in the woods, and covered with 
leaves in their slumber. 

" Puritan flowers," he said, " and the type of Pu- 
ritan maidens, 

Modest and simple and sweet, the very type of 
Priscilla! 
215 So I will take them to her; to Priscilla the May- 
flower of Plymouth, 

Modest and simple and sweet, as a parting gift 
will I take them ; 

Breathing their silent farewells, as they fade and 
wither and perish. 

Soon to be thrown away as is the heart of the 
giver. ' ' 

So through the Plymouth woods John Alden went 
on his errand; 
220 Came to an open space, and saw the disk of the 
ocean, 

Sailless, sombre and cold with the comfortless 
breath of the east-wind ; 

210. The Mayflower is the well-known Epigcea repens, some- 
times also called the Trailing Arbutus. The name Mnyflotver 
was familiar in England, as the application of it to the historic 
ship shows, but it was applied by the English, and is still, to 
the hawthorn. Its use here in connection with Epigoea repens 
dates from a very earh' day, some claiming that the first Pil- 
grims so used it, in affectionate memory of the vessel and its 
English flower associations. 



120 LONGFELLOW. 

Saw the new-built bouse, and people at work in a 
meadow; 

Heard, as be drew near the door, the musical 
voice of Priscilla 

Singing the hundredth Psalm, the grand old Puri- 
tan anthem, 
225 Music that Luther sang to the sacred words of the 
Psalmist, 

Full of the breath of the Lord, consoling and com- 
forting many. 

Then, as he opened the door, he beheld the form 
of the maiden 

Seated beside her wheel, and the carded wool like 
a snow-drift 

Piled at her knee, her white hands feeding the 
ravenous spindle, 
230 While with her foot on the treadle she guided the 
wheel in its motion. 

Open wide on her lap lay the well-worn psalm- 
book of Ainsworth, 

Printed in Amsterdam, the words and the qjusic 
together, 

224. The words in the version which Priscilla used sound 
somewhat rude to modern ears, but the music is substantially 
what we know as Old Hundred. The poet tells us (1. 231) that 
it was Ainsworth's translation which she used. Ainsworth be- 
came a Brownist in 1590, suffered persecution, and found refuge 
in Holland, where he published learned commentaries and 
translations. His version of Psalm c. is as follows: — 

1. Bow to Jehovah all the earth. 

2. Serve ye Jehovah with gladness ; before him come with singing- 

mirth. 

3. Know that Jehovah he God is. It 's ho that made us and not we ; 

his flock and sheep of his feeding. 

4. Oh, with confession enter ye his gates, his courtyard with praising : 

Confess to him, bless ye his name. 

5. Because Jehovah he good is; his mercy ever is the same, and hia 

faith unto all ages. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 121 

Rough-hewn, angular notes, like stones in the wall 

of a churchyard, 
Darkened and overhung by the running vine of 

the verses. 
235 Such was the book from whose pages she sang the 

old Puritan anthem. 
She, the Puritan girl, in the solitude of the forest. 
Making the humble house and the modest apparel 

of home-spun 
Beautiful with her beauty, and rich with the 

wealth of her being ! 
Over him rushed, like a wind that is keen and 

cold and relentless, 
240 Thoughts of what might have been, and the 

weight and woe of his errand; 
All the di-eams that had faded, and all the hopes 

that had vanished. 
All his life henceforth a dreary and tenantless 

mansion, 
Haunted by vain regrets, and pallid, sorrowful 

faces. 
Still he said to himself, and almost fiercely he 

said it, 
245 " Let not him that putteth his hand to the plough 

look backwai'ds; 
Though the ploughshare cut through the flowers 

of life to its fountains. 
Though it pass o'er the graves of the dead and 

the hearths of the living. 
It is the will of the Lord ; and his mercy endur- 

eth forever 1 ' ' 

So he entered the house; and the hum of the 
wheel and the singing 
250 Suddenly ceased; for Priscilla, aroused by his 
step on the threshold, 



122 LONGFELLOW. 

Rose as he entered, and gave him her hand, in 
signal of welcome. 

Saying, " I knew it was you, when I heard your 
step in the passage; 

For I was thinking of you, as I sat there singing 
and spinning." 

Awkward and dumb with delight, that a thought 
of him had been mingled 
255 Thus in the sacred psalm, that came from the 
heart of the maiden. 

Silent before her he stood, and gave her the flow- 
ers for an answer, 

Finding no words for his thought. He remem- 
bered that day in the winter. 

After the first great snow, when he broke a path 
from the village. 

Reeling and pluno-ino- along; throuofh the drifts that 
encumbered the doorway, 
260 Stamping the snow from his feet as he entered 
the house, and Priscilla 

Laughed at his snowy locks, and gave him a seat 
by the fireside. 

Grateful and pleased to know he had thought of 
her in the snow-storm. 

Had he but spoken then ! perhaps not in vain had 
he spoken; 

Now it was all too late ; the golden moment had 
vanished ! 
265 So he stood there abashed, and gave her the flow- 
ers for an answer. 

Then they sat down and talked of the birds and 
the beautiful Spring-time; 
Talked of their friends at home, and the May- 
flower that sailed on the morrow. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SII. 123 

" I have been thinking all day," said gently the 

Puritan maiden, 
" Dreaming all night, and thinking all day, of the 

hedge-rows of England, — 
270 They are in blossom now, and the country is all 

like a garden ; 
Thinking of lanes and fields, and the song of the 

lark and the linnet, 
Seeing the village street, and familiar faces of 

neighbors 
Going about as of old, and stopping to gossip to- 
gether, 
And, at the end of the street, the village church, 

with the ivy 
275 Climbing the old gray tower, and the quiet graves 

in the churchyard. 
Kind are the people I live with, and dear to me 

my religion ; 
Still my heart is so sad, that I wish myself back in 

Old England. 
You will say it is wrong, but I cannot help it: I 

almost 
Wish myself back in Old England, I feel so lonely 

and wretched." 

280 Thereupon answered the youth: " Indeed I do 

not condemn you; 
Stouter hearts than a woman's have quailed in this 

terrible winter. 
Yours is tender and trusting, and needs a stronger 

to lean on ; 
So I have come to you now, with an offer and 

proffer of marriage 
Made by a good man and true, Miles Standisb the 

Captain of Plymouth ! " 



124 LONGFELLOW. 

285 Thus he delivered his message, the dexterous 
writer of letters, — 

Did not embellish the theme, nor array it in beau- 
tiful phrases, 

But came straight to the point, and blurted it out 
like a school-boy; 

Even the Captain himself could hardly have said 
it more bluntly. 

Mute with amazement and sorrow, Priscilla the 
Puritan maiden 
290 Looked into Alden's face, her eyes dilated with 
wonder. 

Feeling his words like a blow, that stunned her 
and rendered her speechless; 

Till at length she exclaimed, interrupting the 
ominous silence: 

" If the great Captain of Plymouth is so very eager 
to wed me. 

Why does he not come himself, and take the 
trouble to woo me ? 
295 If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not 
worth the winning! " 

Then John Alden began explaining and smooth- 
ing the matter. 

Making it worse as he went, by saying the Cap- 
tain was busy, — 

Had no time for such things; — such things! the 
words grating harshly 

Fell on the ear of Priscilla ; and swift as a flash 
she made answer: 
300 " Has he no time for such things, as you call it, be- 
fore he is married, 

Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after 
the wedding ? 

That is the way with you men ; you don't under- 
stand us, you cannot. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 125 

When you have made up your minds, after think- 
ing of this one and that one, 

Choosing, selecting, rejecting, comparing one with 
another, 
305 Then you make known your desire, with abrupt 
and sudden avowal, 

And are offended and hurt, and indignant per- 
haps, that a woman 

Does not respond at once to a love that she never 
suspected. 

Does not attain at it bound the height to which 
you have been climbing. 

This is not right nor just; for surely a woman's 
affection 
310 Is not a thing to be asked for, and had for only 
the asking. 

When one is truly in love, one not only says it, 
but shows it. 

Had he but waited awhile, had he only showed 
that he loved me. 

Even this Captain of yours — who knows ? — at 
last might have won me, 

Old and rough as he is ; but now it never can 
happen." 

315 Still John Alden went on, unheeding the words 
of Priscilla, 

Urging the suit of his friend, explaining, persuad- 
ing, expanding ; 

Spoke of his courage and skill, and of all his 
battles in Flanders, 

How with the people of God he had chosen to 
suffer affliction, 

How, in return for his zeal, they had made him 
Captain of Plymouth ; 



126 LONGFELLOW. 

320 He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree 

plainly 
Back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, in 

Lancashire, England, 
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of 

Thurston de Standish ; 
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely 

defrauded. 
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest 

a cock argent 
325 Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the 

blazon. 
He was a man of" honor, of noble and generous 

nature; 
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew 

how during the winter 
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle 

as woman's ; 



321. " There are at this time in England two ancient fami- 
lies of the name, one of Standish Hall, and the other of Dux- 
bury Park, both in Lancashire, who trace their descent from a 
common ancestor, Ralph de Standish, living in 1221. There 
seems always to have been a military spirit in the family. 
Froissart, relating in his Chronicles the memorable meeting be- 
tween Richard II. and Wat Tyler, says that after the rebel was 
struck from his horse by William Walworth, ' then a squj'cr of 
the kynges alyted, called John Standysshe, and he drewe out 
his sworde, and put into Wat Tyler's belye, and so he dyed.' 
For this act Standish was knighted. In 1415 another Sir John 
Standish fought at the battle of Agincourt. From his giving 
the name of Duxbury to the town wiiere he settled, near Plym- 
outh, and calling his eldest son Alexander (a common name in 
the Standish family), I have no doubt that Miles was a scion 
from this ancient and warlike stock." Young's Chronidts of 
the Pilgrims, foot-note, p. 125. 

325. Terms of heraldry. Argtnt is silver and gides red. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 127 

Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, 

and headstrong, 
330 Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty, and 

placable always, 
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was 

little of stature ; 
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, 

courageous ; 
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in 

England, 
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of 

Miles Standish! 

335 But as he warmed and glowed, in his simple and 
eloquent language. 

Quite forgetful of self, and full of the praise of 
his rival. 

Archly the maiden smiled, and, with eyes over- 
running with laughter, 

Said, in a tremulous voice, " Why don't you 
speak for yourself, John? " 

IV. 

JOHN ALDEN. 

Into the open air John Alden, perplexed and be- 
wildered, 
340 Kushed like a man insane, and wandered alone by 
the sea-side; 

Paced up and down the sands, and bared his head 
to the east-wind. 

Cooling his heated brow, and the fire and fever 
within him. 

Slowly, as out of the heavens, with apocalyptical 
. splendors. 



128 LONGFELLOW. 

Sank the City of God, in the vision of John the 
Apostle, 
345 So, with its cloudy walls of chrysoUte, jasper, and 
sapphire. 

Sank the broad red sun, and over its turrets up- 
lifted 

Glimmered the golden reed of the angel who 
measured the city. 

" Welcome, O wind of the East! " he exclaimed 

in his wild exultation, 
•'Welcome, O wind of the East, from the caves 

of the misty Atlantic ! 
350 Blowing o'er fields of dulse, and measureless 

meadows of sea-grass. 
Blowing o'er rocky wastes, and the grottos and 

gardens of ocean ! 
Lay thy cold, moist hand on my burning forehead, 

and wrap me 
Close in thy garments of mist, to allay the fever 

within me ! " 

Like an awakened conscience, the sea was 
moaning and tossing, 
355 Beating remorseful and loud the mutable sands of 
the sea-shore. 

Fierce in his soul was the struggle and tumult of 
passions contending; 

Love triumphant and crowned, and friendship 
wounded and bleeding, 

Passionate cries of desire, and importunate plead- 
ings of duty ! 

"Is it my fault," he said, " that the maiden has 
chosen between us? 

3ii. See the last chapter of the Book of Revelation. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 129 

360 Is it my fault that he failed, — my fault that I am 

the victor? " 
Then within him there thundered a voice, like the 

voice of the Prophet: 
"It hath displeased the Lord ! " — and he thought 

of David's transgression, 
Bathsheba's beautiful face, and his friend in the 

front of the battle ! 
Shame and confusion of guilt, and abasement and 

self-condemnation, 
365 Overwhelmed him at once; and he cried in the 

deepest contrition: 
*' It hath displeased the Lord I It is the tempta- 
tion of Satan I ' ' 

Then, uplifting his head, he looked at the sea, 

and beheld there 
Dimly the shadowy form of the Mayflower riding 

at anchor. 
Rocked on the rising tide, and ready to sail on 

the morrow; 
370 Heard the voices of men through the mist, the 

rattle of cordage 
Thrown on the deck, the shouts of the mate, and 

the sailors' " Ay, ay. Sir! " 
Clear and distinct, but not loud, in the dripping 

air of the twilight. 
Still for a moment he stood, and listened, and 

stared at the vessel, 
Then went hurriedly on, as one who, seeing a 

phantom, 
375 Stops, then quickens his pace, and follows the 

beckoning shadow. 
"Yes, it is plain to me now," he murmured; 

" the hand of the Lord is 
9 



130 LONGFELLOW. 

Leading me out of the land of darkness, the bond- 
age of error, 

Through the sea, that shall lift the walls of its 
waters around me, 

Hiding me, cutting me off, from the cruel thoughts 
that pursue me. 
380 Back will I go o'er the ocean, this dreary land 
will abandon, 

Her whom I may not love, and him whom my 
heart has offended. 

Better to be in my grave in the green old church- 
yard in England, 

Close by my mother's side, and among the dust 
of my kindred; 

Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame 
and dishonor! 
385 Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the 
narrow chamber 

With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel 
that glimmers 

Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers 
of silence and darkness, — 

Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal 
hereafter! " 

Thus as he spake, he turned, in the strength of 
his strong resolution, 
390 Leaving behind him the shore, and hurried along 
in the twilight, 
Through the congenial gloom of the forest silent 
and sombre, 
. Till he beheld the lights in the seven houses of 
Plymouth, 

392. In a letter written by Edward Winslow, December 11, 
1C21, to a friend in England, he says: "You shall understand 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SII. 131 

Shining like seven stars in the dusk and mist of 
the evening. 

Soon he entered his door, and found the redoubta- 
ble Captain 
395 Sitting alone, and absorbed in the martial pages 
of Caesar, 

Fighting some great campaign in Hainault or 
Brabant or Flanders. 

"Long have you been on your errand," he said 
with a cheery demeanor, 

Even as one who is waiting an answer, and fears 
not the issue. 

" Not far off is the house, although the woods are 
between us; 
400 But you have lingered so long, that while you 
were going and coming 

I have fought ten battles and sacked and demol- 
ished a city. 

Come, sit down, and in order relate to me all that 
has happened." 

Then John Alden spake, and related the won- 
drous adventure, 

From beginning to end, minutely, just as it hap- 
pened; 
405 How he had seen Priscilla, and how he had s^ied 
in his courtship. 

Only smoothing a little, and softening down her 
refusal. 

But when he came at length to the words Priscilla 
had sjwken, 

that in this little time that a few of us have been here, we 
have built seven dwelling-houses and four for the use of the 
plantation." Young's Chronicles, p. 230. 



132 LONGFELLO W. 

Words so tender and cruel: "Why don't you 

speak for yourself, John? " 
Up leaped the Captain of Plymouth, and stamped 

on the floor, till his armor 
410 Clanged on the wall, where it hung, with a sound 

of sinister omen. 
All his pent-up wrath burst forth in a sudden ex- 
plosion. 
E'en as a hand-grenade, that scatters destruction 

around it. 
Wildly he shouted, and loud: "John Alden! you 

have betrayed me! 
Me, Miles Standish, your friend ! have supplanted, 

defrauded, betrayed me! 
415 One of my ancestors ran his sword through the 

heart of Wat Tyler; 
Who shall prevent me from running my own 

through the heart of a traitor? 
Yours is the greater treason, for yours is a treason 

to friendship! 
You, who lived under my roof, whom I cherished 

and loved as a brother ; 
You, who have fed at my board, and drunk at my 

cup, to whose keeping 
420 I have intrusted my honor, my thoughts the most 

sacred and secret, — 
You too, Brutus ! ah woe to the name of friend- 
ship hereafter ! 
Brutus was Caesar's friend, and you were mine, 

but henceforward 
Let there be nothing between us save war, and 

implacable hatred! " 

So spake the Cai)tain of Plymouth, and strode 
about in the chamber, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 133 

425 Chafing and choking with rage; like cords were 

the veins on his temples. 
But in the midst of his anger a man appeared at 

the doorway, 
Bringing in uttermost haste a message of urgent 

importance, 
Rumors of danger and war and hostile incursions 

of Indians! 
Straightway the Captain paused, and, without fur- 
ther question or parley, 
430 Took from the nail on the wall his sword with its 

scabbard of iron, 
Buckled the belt round his waist, and, frowning 

fiercely, departed. 
Alden was left alone. He heard the clank of the 

scabbard 
Growing fainter and fainter, and dying away in 

the distance. 
Then he arose from his seat, and looked forth into 

the darkness, 
435 Felt the cool air blow on his cheek, that was hot 

with the insult. 
Lifted his eyes to the heavens, and, folding his 

hands as in childhood. 
Prayed in the silence of night to the Father who 

seeth in secret. 

Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrath- 
ful away to the council. 
Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting 
his coming; 
440 Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in de- 
portment, 
Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to 
heaven. 



134 LONGFELLOW. 

Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder 

of Plymouth. 
God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat 

for this planting, 
Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a 

nation ; 
445 So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of 

the people ! 
Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude 

stern and defiant, 
Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious 

in aspect; 
While on the table before them was lying unopened 

a Bible, 
Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed 

in Holland, 
450 And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake 

glittered, 

442. Elder William Brewster. The elder of the Pilgrim 
Church was the minister who taught and administered the sac- 
raments. He was assisted also by an officer named the ruling 
elder, whose function was much the same as that of the deacon 
in Congregational churches at the present day. The teaching 
elder included ruling among his duties ; the ruling elder some- 
times taught in the absence of his superior; the teaching elder 
was maintained by the people ; the ruling elder was not with- 
drawn from other occupations, and maintained himself. Brew- 
ster was the ruling elder in the little Plymouth Church, but in 
the absence of Robinson was also their teacher. 

443. In Stoughton's election sermon of 1668 occurs the first 
use, apparently, of this oft-quoted phrase: " God sifted a whole 
nation that he might send a choice grain over into this wilder- 
ness." 

449. The Genevan Bible was the favorite version of the Pur- 
itans, and was clung to long after the King James version had 
been issued. Owing to obstacles in England, the Bible was 
frequently printed on the Continent, once at any rate at Am- 
sterdam. 

450. As a matter of histoiy, the first recorded instance of the 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 135 

Filled, like a quiver, with arrows: a signal and 

challenge of warfare, 
Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy 

tongues of defiance. 
This Miles Standish beheld, as he entei'ed, and 

heard them debating 
What were an answer befitting the hostile message 

and menace, 
455 Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, 

objecting; 
One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the 

Elder, 
Judging it wise and well that some at least were 

converted, 
Rather than any were slain, for this was but 

Christian behavior 1 
Then out spake Miles Standish, the stalwart Cap- 
tain of Plymouth, 
460 Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was 

husky with anger, 
" What! do you mean to make war with milk and 

the water of roses ? 

rattlesnake skin challenge was in January, 1622, when Tis- 
quantum the Indian brought a defiance from Canonicus, and 
the governor returned the skin stuffed with bullets. Holmes, 
in his Annals {i. 177), reminds the reader: "There is a re- 
markable coincidence in the form of this challenge given by 
the Scythian prince to Darius. Five arrows made a part of the 
present sent by his herald to the Persian king. The manner of 
declaring war bj' the Aracaunian Indians of South America was 
by sending from town to town an arrow clinched in a dead 
man's hand." 

457. The poet here has used the words of John Robinson to 
the colonists after the first encounter with the Indians: "Oh, 
how happy a thing had it been, if you had converted some be- 
fore you had killed any ! " 



136 LONGFELLOW. 

Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer 

planted 
There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot 

red devils? 
Truly the only tongue that is understood by a 

savage 
465 Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the 

mouth of the cannon ! ' ' 
Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder 

of Plymouth, 
Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent 

language : 
"Not so thought Saint Paul, nor yet the other 

Apostles ; 
Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of 

fire they spake with! " 
470 But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Cap- 
tain, 
Who had advanced to the table, and thus con- 
tinued discoursing: 
" Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it 

pertaineth. 
War is a terrible trade ; but in the cause that is 

righteous, 
Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer 

the challenge ! ' ' 

475 Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sud- 
den, contemptuous gesture, 

Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder 
and bullets 

Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the 
savage. 

Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it I 
this is your answer! " 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 137 

Silently out of the room then glided the glistening 
savage, 
480 Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself 
like a serpent. 
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths 
of the forest. 



V 
THE SAILING OF THE MAYFLOWER. 

Just in the gray of the dawn, as the mists up- 
rose from the meadows, 

There was a stir and a sound in the slumbering 
village of Plymouth; 

Clanging and clicking of arms, and the order im- 
perative, " Forward! " 
485 Given in tone suppressed, a tramp of feet, and 
then silence. 

Figures ten, in the mist, marched slowly out of 
the village. 

Standish the stalwart it was, with eight of his 
valorous army, 

Led by their Indian guide, by Hobomok, friend of 
the white men, 

Northward marching to quell the sudden revolt of 
the savage. 
490 Giants they seemed in the mist, or the mighty 
men of King David ; 

Giants in heart they were, who believed in God 
and the Bible, — 

Ay, who believed in the smiting of Midianites and 
Philistines. 

Over them gleamed far off the crimson banners of 
morning; 



138 LONGFELLOW. 

Under them loud on the sands, the serried billows, 
advancing, 
495 Fired along the line, and in regular order re- 
treated. 

Many a mile had they marched, when at length 

the village of Plymouth 
Woke from its sleep, and arose, intent on its mani- 
fold labors. 
Sweet was the air and soft; and slowly the smoke 

from the chimneys 
Rose over roofs of thatch, and pointed steadily 

eastward ; 
500 Men came forth from the doors, and paused and 

talked of the weather, 
Said that the wind had changed, and was blowing 

fair for the Mayflower; 
Talked of their Captain's departure, and all the 

dangers that menaced. 
He being gone, the town, and what should be done 

in his absence. 
Merrily sang the birds, and the tender voices of 

women 
505 Consecrated with hymns the common cares of the 

household. 
Out of the sea rose the sun, and the billows re- 
joiced at his coming; 
Beautiful were his feet on the purple tops of the 

mountains ; 
Beautiful on the sails of the Mayflower riding at 

anchor, 
Battered and blackened and worn by all the 

storms of the winter. 
510 Loosely against her masts was hanging and flapping 

her canvas, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 139 

Rent by so many gales, and patched by tlie hands 

of the sailors. 
Suddenly from her side, as the sun rose over the 

ocean, 
Darted a puff of smoke, and floated seaward ; anon 

rang 
Loud over field and forest the cannon's roar, and 

the echoes 
515 Heard and repeated the sound, the signal-gtm of 

departure ! 
Ah ! but with louder echoes replied the hearts of 

the people! 
Meekly, in voices subdued, the chapter was read 

from the Bible, 
Meekly the prayer was begun, but ended in fer- 
vent entreaty ! 
Then from their houses in haste came forth the 

Pilgrims of Plymouth, 
520 Men and women and children, all hurrying down 

to the sea-shore. 
Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the 

Mayflower, 
Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them 

here in the desert. 

Foremost them among was Alden. All night he 

had lain without slumber. 
Turning and tossing about in the heat and unrest 

of his fever. 
525 He had beheld Miles Standish, who came back 

late from the council. 
Stalking into the room, and heard him mutter and 

murmur. 
Sometimes it seemed a prayer, and sometimes it 

sounded like swearins. 



140 LONGFELLO W. 

Once he had come to the bed, and stood there a 

moment in silence; 
Then be had turned away, and said : " I will not 

awake him ; 
530 Let him sleep on, it is best; for what is the use of 

more talking! " 
Then he extinguished the light, and threw himself 

down on his pallet, 
Dressed as he was, and ready to start at the break 

of the morning. — 
Covered himself with the cloak he had worn in his 

campaigns in Flanders, — 
Slept as a soldier sleeps in his bivouac, ready for 

action. 
535 But with the dawn he arose ; in the twilight Alden 

beheld him 
Put on his corselet of steel, and all the rest of his 

armor. 
Buckle about his waist his trusty blade of Damas- 
cus, 
Take from the corner his musket, and so stride 

out of the chamber. 
Often the heart of the youth had burned and 

yearned to embrace him, 
540 Often his lips had essayed to speak, imploring for 

pardon ; 
All the old friendship came back with its tender 

and grateful emotions; 
But his pride overmastered the nobler nature 

within him, — 
Pride, and the sense of his wrong, and the burn- 
ing fire of the insult. 
So he beheld his friend departing in anger, but 

spake not, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 141 

545 Saw him go fortli to danger, perhaps to death, 

and he spake not! 
Then he arose from his bed, and heard what the 

people were saying, 
Joined in the talk at the door, with Stephen and 

Richard and Gilbert, 
Joined in the morning prayer, and in the reading 

of Scripture, 
And, with the others, in haste went hurrying down 

to the sea-shore, 
550 Down to the Plymouth Rock, that had been to 

their feet as a doorstep 
Into a world unknown, — the corner-stone of a 

nation ! 

There with his boat was the Master, already a 

little impatient 
Lest he should lose the tide, or the wind might 

shift to the eastward. 
Square-built, hearty, and strong, with an odor of 

ocean about him, 
555 Speaking with this one and that, and cramming 

letters and parcels 
Into his pockets capacious, and messages mingled 

together 
Into his narrow brain, till at last he was wholly 

bewildered. 
Nearer the boat stood Alden, with one foot placed 

on the gunwale, 
One still firm on the rock, and talking at times 

with the sailors, 
560 Seated erect on the thwarts, all ready and eager 

for starting. 

547. The names are not taken at random. Stephen Hop- 
kins, Kichard Warren, and Gilbert Winslow were all among 
the Mayflower passengers, and were alive at this time. 



142 LONGFELLOW. 

He too was eager to go, and thus put an end to his 
anguish, 

Thinking to fly from despair, that swifter than 
keel is or canvas. 

Thinking to drown in the sea the ghost that would 
rise and pursue him. 

But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form 
of Priscilla 
565 Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all 
that was passing. 

Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined 
his intention, 

Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, implor- 
ing, and patient. 

That with a sudden revulsion his heart recoiled 
from its purpose, 

As from the verge of a crag, where one step more 
is destruction. 
570 Strange is the heart of man, with its quick, mys- 
terious instincts! 

Strange is the life of man, and fatal or fated are 
moments, 

Whereupon turn, as on hinges, the gates of the 
wall adamantine! 

" Here I remain! " he exclaimed, as he looked at 
the heavens above him, 

Thanking the Lord whose breath had scattered 
the mist and the madness, 
575 Wherein, blind and lost, to death he was stagger- 
ing headlong. 

" Yonder snow-white cloud, that floats in the ether' 
above me. 

Seems like a hand that is pointing and beckoning 
over the ocean. 

There is another hand, that is not so spectral and 
ghost-like, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 143 

Holding me, drawing me back, and clasping mine 

for protection. 
580 Float, O Land of cloud, and vanish away in the 

ether ! 
Roll thyself up like a fist, to threaten and daunt 

me; I heed not 
Either your warning or menace, or any omen of 

evil ! 
There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so 

wholesome. 
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is 

pressed by her footsteps. 
585 Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible 

presence 
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting 

her weakness; 
Yes ! as my foot was the first that stepped on this 

rock at the landing, 
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last 

at the leaving ! ' ' 

Meanwhile the Master alert, but with dignified 
air and important, 
590 Scanning with watchful eye the tide and the wind 
and the weather, 
Walked about on the sands, and the people crowded 

around him 
Saying a few last words, and enforcing his careful 

remembrance. 
Then, taking each by the hand, as if he were 

grasping a tiller, 
Into the boat he sprang, and in haste shoved off to 
his vessel, 
595 Glad in his heart to get rid of all this worry and 
flurry, 



144 LONGFELLOW. 

Glad to be gone from a land of sand and sickness 

and sorrow, 
Short allowance of victual, and plenty of nothing 

but Gospel! 
Lost in the sound of the oars was the last farewell 

of the Pilgrims. 
O strong hearts and true ! not one went back in 

the Mayflower! 
600 No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to 

this ploughing! 

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs 

of the sailors 
Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the 

ponderous anchor. 
Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to 

the west-wind. 
Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower 

sailed from the harbor, 
605 Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far 

to the southward 
Island and cape of sand, and the Field of the First 

Encounter, 
Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the 

open Atlantic, 
Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling 

hearts of the Pilgrims. 

605. Tlie Gurnet, or Gurnet's Nose, is a headland connecting 
with Marshfield by a beach about seven miles long. On its 
southern extremit}' are two light-houses which light the en- 
trance to Plymouth Harbor. » 

606. " So after we had giv5n God thanks for our deliver- 
ance, we took our shallop and went on our journe}', and called 
this place The First Encounter." Bradford and Winslow's Jour- 
nal in Young's Chronicles, p. 159. The place on the Eastham 
shore marked the spot where the Pilgrims had their first en- 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 145 

Long in silence they watched the receding sail 

of the vessel, 
6io Much endeared to them all, as something living 

and human ; 
Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a 

vision prophetic. 
Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of 

Plymouth 
Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and 

thanked the Lord and took courage. 
Mom-nfuUy sobbed the waves at the base of the 

rock, and above them 
615 Bowed and whispered the wheat on the hill of 

death, and their kindred 
Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in 

the prayer that they uttered. 
Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of 

the ooean 
Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in 

a graveyard ; 
Buried beneath it lay forever all hope of escap- 
ing. 
620 Lo! as they turned to depart, they saw the form 

of an Indian, 
Watching them from the hill; but while they 

spake with each other. 
Pointing with outstretched hands, and saying, 

" Look! " he had vanished. 
So they returned to their homes ; but Alden lin- 
gered a Uttle, 
Musing alone on the shore, and watching the wash 

of the billows 

counter with the Indians, December 8, 1620. A party under 
Miles Standish was exploring the country while the Mayflower 
was at anchor in Provincetown Harbor. 
10 



146 LONGFELLOW. 

625 Round the base of the rock, and the sparkle and 
flash of the sunshine, 
Like the spirit of God, moving visibly over the 
waters. 



VI. 

PRISCILLA. 

Thus for a while he stood, and mused by the 
shore of the ocean, 

Thinking of many things, and most of all of Pris- 
cilla; 

And as if thought had the power to draw to itself, 
like the loadstone, 
630 Whatsoever it touches, by subtile laws of its nat- 
ure, 

Lo! as he turned to depart, Pi-iscilla was standing 
beside him. 

" Are you so much offended, you will not speak 

to me ? " said she. 
* ' Am I so much to blame, that yesterday, when 

you were pleading 
Warmly the cause of another, my heart, impulsive 

and wayward, 
635 Pleaded your own, and spake out, forgetful per- 
haps of decorum '? 
Certainly you can forgive me for speaking so 

frankly, for saying 
What I ought not to have said, yet now I can 

never unsay it; 
For there are moments in life, when the heart is 

so full of emotion, 

626. See Genesis i. 2. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 147 

That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths 
Hke a pebble 
640 Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its se- 
cret, 

Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gath- 
ered together. 

Yesterday I was shocked, when I heard you speak 
of Miles Standish, 

Praising his virtues, transforming his very defects 
into virtues, 

Praising his courage and strength, and even his 
fighting in Flanders, 
645 As if by fighting alone you could win the heart of 
a woman. 

Quite overlooking yourself and the rest, in exalt- 
ing your hero. 

Therefore I spake as I did, by an irresistible im- 
pulse. 

You will forgive me, I hope, for the sake of the 
friendship between us, 

Which is too true and too sacred to be so easily 
broken 1 " 
650 Thereupon answered John Alden, the scholar, the 
friend of Miles Standish : 

"I was not angry with you, with myself alone I 
was angry. 

Seeing how badly I managed the matter I had in 
my keeping." 

"No!" interrupted the maiden, with answer 
prompt and decisive; 

"No; you were angry with me, for speaking so 
frankly and freely. 
655 It was wrong, I acknowledge; for it is the fate of 
a woman 

Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost 
that is speechless, 



148 LONGFELLOW. 

Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of 

its silence. 
Hence is the inner life of so many suffering 

women 
Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean 

rivers 
660 Running througli caverns of darkness, unheard, 

unseen, and unfruitful. 
Chafing their channels of stone, with endless and 

profitless murmurs." 
Thereupon answered John Alden, the young man, 

the lover of women: 
' ' Heaven forbid it, Priscilla ; and truly they seem 

to me always 
More like the beautiful rivers that watered the 

garden of Eden, 
665 More like the river Euphrates, through deserts of 

Havilah flowing, 
Filling the land with delight, and memories sweet 

of the garden 1 " 
" Ah, by these words, I can see," again inter- 
rupted the maiden, 
" How very little you prize me, or care for what I 

am saying. 
When from the depths of my heart, in pain and 

with seci'et misgiving, 
670 Frankly I speak to you, asking for sympathy only 

and kindness, 
Straightway you take up my words, that are plain 

and direct and in earnest. 
Turn them away from their meaning, and answer 

with flattering phrases. 

659. Compare Coleridge, — 

" Where Alph, the sacred river ran 
Through caverns measureless to man, 
Down to a sunless sea." 

Vision of Kubla Khan. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 149 

This is not right, is not just, is not true to the best 
that is in you; 

For I know and esteem you, and feel that your 
nature is noble, 
675 Lifting mine up to a higher, a more ethereal level. 

Therefore I value your friendship, and feel it per- 
haps the more keenly 

If you say aught that implies I am only as one 
among many, 

If you make use of those common and complimen- 
tary phrases 

Most men think so fine, in dealing and speaking 
with women, 
680 But which women reject as insipid, if not as in- 
sulting." 

Mute and amazed was Alden; and listened and 
looked at Priscilla, 

Thinking he never had seen her more fair, more 
divine in her beauty. 

He who but yesterday pleaded so glibly the cause 
of another. 

Stood there embarrassed and silent, and seeking 
in vain for an answer. 
685 So the maiden went on, and little divined or im- 
agined 

What was at work in his heart, that made him so 
awkward and speechless. 

"Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what 
we think, and in all things 

Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred 
professions of friendship. 

It is no secret I tell you, nor am I ashamed to de- 
clare it : 
690 I have liked to be with you, to see you, to speak 
with you always. 



150 LONGFELLO W. 

So I was hurt at your words, and a little affronted 

to hear you 
Urge me to marry your friend, though he were the 

Captain Miles Standish. 
For I must tell you the truth : much more to me is 

your friendship 
Than all the love he could give, were he twice the 

hero you think him." 
695 Then she extended her hand, and Alden, who 

eagerly grasped it, 
Felt all the wounds in his heart, that were aching 

and bleeding so sorely, 
Healed by the touch of that hand, and he said, 

with a voice full of feeling: 
•' Yes, we must ever be friends; and of all who of- 
fer you friendship 
Let me be ever the first, the truest, the nearest 

and dearest! " 

700 Casting a farewell look at the glimmering sail 
of the Mayflower 

Distant, but still in sight, and sinking below the 
horizon. 

Homeward together they walked, with a strange, 
indefinite feeling, 

That all the rest had departed and left theYn alone 
in the desert. 

But, as they went through the fields in the bless- 
ing and smile of the sunshine, 
705 Lighter grew their hearts, and Priscilla said very 
archly : 

" Now that our terrible Captain has gone in pur- 
suit of the Indians, 

Where he is happier far than he would be com- 
mandina: a household, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 151 

You may speak boldly, and tell me of all that 

happened between you, 
When you returned last night, and said how un- 
grateful you found me." 
710 Thereupon answered John Alden, and told her 

the whole of the story, — 
Told her his own despair, and the direful wrath of 

Mies Standish. 
Whereat the maiden smiled, and said between 

laughing and earnest, 
' ' He is a little chimney, and heated hot in a 

moment! " 
But as he gently rebuked her, and told her how 

he had suffered, — 
715 How he had even determined to sail that day in 

the Mayflower, 
And had remained for her sake, on hearing the 

dangers that threatened, — 
All her manner was changed, and she said with a 

faltering accent, 
" Truly I thank you for this: how good you have 

been to me always! " 

Thus, as a pilgrim devout, who toward Jeru- 
salem journeys, 
720 Taking three steps in advance, and one reluctantly 
backward. 

Urged by importunate zeal, and withheld by 
pangs of contrition; 

Slowly but steadily oi>ward, receding yet ever 
advancing. 

Journeyed this Puritan youth to the Holy Land 
of his longings. 

Urged by the fervor of love, and withheld by re- 
morseful mis£ivino;s. 



152 LONGFELLOW. 



VII. 

THE MARCH OF MILES STANDISH. 

725 Meanwhile the stalwart Miles Standish was march- 
ing steadily northward, 
Winding through forest and swamp, and along the 

trend of the sea-shore, 
All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his 

anger 
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous 

odor of powder 
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the 

scents of the forest. 
730 Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved 

his discomfort; 
He who was used to success, and to easy victories 

always. 
Thus to be flouted, rejected, and laughed to scorn 

by a maiden, 
Thus to be mocked and betrayed by the friend 

whom most he had trusted ! 
Ah! 'twas too much to be borne, and he fretted 

and chafed in his armor! 

735 "I alone am to blame," he muttered, "for 

mine was the folly. 
What has a rough old soldier, grown grim and 

gray in the harness. 
Used to the camp and its ways, to do with the 

wooing of maidens? 
'T was but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish 

like so many others I 
What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, and 

is worthless; 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 153 

740 Out of my heart will I pluck it, and throw it 

away, and henceforward 
Be but a fighter of battles, a lover and wooer of 

dangers! " 
Thus he revolved in his mind his sorry defeat and 

discomfort, 
While he was marching by day or lying at night 

in the forest. 
Looking up at the trees and the constellations 

beyond them. 

745 After a three days' march he came to an In- 
dian encampment 

Pitched on the edge of a meadow, between the 
sea and the forest; 

Women at work by the tents, and the warriors, 
horrid with war-paint. 

Seated about a fire, and smoking and talking to- 
gether; 

Who, when they saw from afar the sudden ap- 
proach of the white men, 
750 Saw the flash of the sun on breastplate and sabre 
and musket. 

Straightway leaped to their feet, and two, from 
among them advancing, 

Came to parley with Standish, and offer him furs 
as a present; 

Friendship was in their looks, but in their hearts 
there was hatred. 

Braves of the tribe were these, and brothers 
gigantic in stature, 

745. The poet has taken his material for this expedition of 
Standish's from the report in Winslow's Relation of Standish's 
Expedition against the Indians of Weymouth, and the breaking 
up of Weston^s Colony at that j)lace, in March, 1623, as given 
in Dr. Youiik's Chronicl.es. 



154 LONGFELLOW. 

y^^ Huge as Goliath of Gath, or the terrible Og, king 

of Bashan; 
One was Pecksuot named, and the other was 

called Wattawamat. 
Round their necks were suspended their knives 

in scabbards of wampum, 
Two-edged, trenchant knives, with points as sharp 

as a needle. 
Other arras had they none, for they were cunning 

and crafty. 
760 " Welcome, English ! " they said, — these words 

they had learned from the traders 
Touching at times on the coast, to barter and 

chaffer for peltries. 
Then in their native tongue they began to parley 

with Standish, 
Through his guide and interpreter, Hobomok, 

friend of the white man, 
Begging for blankets and knives, but mostly for 

muskets and powder, 
765 Kept by the white man, they said, concealed, with 

the plague, in his cellars. 
Ready to be let loose, and destroy his bi'other the 

red man! 
But when Standish refused, and said he would 

give them the Bible, 
Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast 

and to bluster. 
Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front 

of the other, 
770 And, with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly 

spake to the Captain: 
" Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of 

the Captain, 
Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the 

brave Wattawamat 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDI SH. 155 

Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a 

woman, 
But on a mountain, at night, from an oak-tree 

riven by lightning, 
775 Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weajDons 

about him, 
Shouting, ' Who is there here to fight with the 

brave Wattawamat? ' " 
Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the 

blade on his left hand. 
Held it aloft and displayed a woman's face on the 

handle, 
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister 

meaning: 
780 " I have another at home, with the face of a man 

on the handle ; 
By and by they shall marry ; and there will be 

plenty of children! " 

Then stood Pecksuot forth, self-vaunting, in- 
sulting Miles Standish; 
While with his fingers he patted the knife that 
hung at his bosom, 

775. " Among the rest Wituwamat bragged of the excellency 
of his knife. On the end of the handle there was pictured a 
woman's face; 'but,' said he, ' I have another at home where- 
with I have killed both French and English, and that hath a 
man's face on it, and by and by these two must marry.' Fur- 
ther he said of that knife he there had, Binnaim namen, hin- 
naim micJien, matta cuts ; that is to saj', By and by it should 
see, and by and by it should eat, but not speak. Also Peck- 
suot, being a man of greater stature than the captain, told him, 
though he were a great captain, yet he was but a little man; 
and, said he, though I be no sachem, yet I am a man of great 
strength and courage." Winslow's Relation. The poet turns 
the whole incident of Standish's parley and killing of the In- 
dians into a more open and brave piece of conduct than the 
chronicle admits. 



156 LONGFELLOW. 

Drawing it half from its sheath, and plunging it 

back, as he muttered, 
785 " By and by it shall see; it shall eat; ah, ha! but 

shall speak not! 
This is the mighty Captain the white men have 

sent to destroy us! 
He is a little man ; let him go and work with the 

women! " 

Meanwhile Standish had noted the faces and 

figures of Indians 
Peeping and creeping about from bush to tree in 

the forest, 
790 Feigning to look for game, with arrows set on 

their bow-strings, 
Drawing about him still closer and closer the net 

of their ambush. 
But undaunted he stood, and dissembled and 

treated them smoothly; 
So the old chronicles say, that were writ in the 

days of the fathers. 
But when he heard their defiance, the boast, the 

taunt, and the insult, 
795 All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of 

Thurston de Standish, 
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the 

veins of his temples. 
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and, snatching 

his knife from its scabbard. 
Plunged it into his heart, and, reeling backward, 

the savage 
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiendlike 

fierceness upon it. 
800 Straight there arose from the forest the awful 

sound of the war-whoop, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 157 

And, like a flurry of snow on the whistling wind 

of December, 
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of 

feathery arrows. 
Then came a cloud of smoke, and out of the cloud 

came the lightning, 
Out of the lightning thunder; and death unseen 

ran before it. 
805 Frightened the savages fled for shelter in swamp 

and in thicket. 
Hotly pursued and beset; but their sachem, the 

brave Wattawamat, 
Fled not; he was dead. Unswerving and swift 

had a bullet 
Passed through his brain, and he fell with both 

hands clutching the greensward, 
Seeming in death to hold back from his foe the 

land of his fathers. 

810 There on the flowers of the meadow the warriors 

lay, and above them, 
Silent, with folded arms, stood Hobomok, friend 

of the white man. 
Smiling at length he exclaimed to the stalwart 

Captain of Plymouth : 
" Pecksuot bragged very loud, of his courage, his 

strength and his stature, — 

811. "Hobbamock stood by all this time as a spectator, and 
meddled not, observing how our men demeaned themselves in 
this action. All being here ended, smiling, he brake forth into 
these speeches to the Captain: ' Yesterday Pecksuot, bragging 
of his own strength and stature, said, tliough you were a great 
captain, yet you were but a little man; but to-day I see you 
are big enough to lay him on the ground.' " Winslow's Rela- 
tion. 



158 LONGFELLOW. 

Mocked the great Captain, and called him a little 
man; but I see now 
815 Big enough have you been to lay him speechless 
before you ! ' ' 

Thus the first battle was fought and won by the 
stalwart Miles Stand ish. 

When the tidings thereof were brought to the vil- 
lage of Plymouth, 

And as a trophy of war the head of the brave 
Wattawamat 

Scowled from the roof of the fort, which at once 
was a church and a fortress, 
820 All who beheld it rejoiced, and praised the Lord, 
and took courage. 

Only Priscilla averted her face from this spectre 
of terror, 

Thanking God in her heart that she had not mar- 
ried Miles Standish; 

Shrinking, fearing almost, lest, coming home from 
his battles, 

He should lay claim to her hand, as the prize and 
reward of his valor. 

818. " Now was the Captain returned and received with joy, 
the head being brought to the fort, and there set up." Wins- 
iow's Relation. The custom of exposing the heads of offenders 
in this way was familiar enough to the Pl3'mouth people before 
they left England. As late as the year 17-17 the heads of the 
lords who were concerned in the Scot's Rebellion were set up 
over Temple Bar, in London. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES ST AN DISH. 159 



VIII. 

THE SriNNING-WHEEL. 

825 Month after month passed away, and in Autumn 

the ships of the merchants 
Came with kindred and friends, with cattle and 

corn for the Pilgi'ims. 
All in the village was peace; the men were intent 

on their labors, 
Busy with hewing and building, with garden-plot 

and with merestead, 
Busy with breaking the glebe, and mowing the 

grass in the meadows, 
830 Searching the sea for its fish, and hunting the 

deer in the forest. 
All in the village was peace ; but at times the 

rumor of warfare 
Filled the air with alarm, and the apprehension of 

danger. 
Bravely the stalwart Standish was scouring the 

land with his forces. 
Waxing valiant in fight and defeating the alien 

armies, 
835 Till his name had become a sound of fear to the 

nations. 
Anger was still in his heart, but at times the re- 
morse and contrition 

825. The poet again has moved the narrative forward, taking 
Standish's return from his expedition as the date from which 
after events are measured. The Anue and the Little James 
came at the beginning of August, 1623. 

828. Mere or ineara in Old English is boundary, and me7'e- 
sifflt/ becomes the bounded lot. The first entry in the records 
of Plymouth Colony is an incomplete list of " The Meersteads 
and Garden-plotes of those which came first, layed out, 1620." 



160 LONGFELLOW. 

Which in all noble natures succeed the passionate 

outbreak, 
Came like a rising tide, that encounters the rush 

of a river, 
Staying its current awhile, but making it bitter 

and brackish. 

840 Meanwhile Alden at home had built him a new 

habitation. 
Solid, substantial, of timber rough -hewn from the 

firs of the forest. 
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was 

covered with rushes ; 
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes 

were of paper, 
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were 

excluded. 
845 There too he dug a well, and around it planted an 

orchard : 
Still may be seen to this day some trace of the 

well and the orchard. 
Close to the house was the stall, where, safe and 

secure from annoyance, 

843. When the Fortune which visited the colony in Novem- 
ber, 1621, returned to England, Edward Winslow wrote by it a 
letter of advice to those who were thinking of emigrating to 
America, in which he saj^s : "Bring paper and linseed oil for 
your windows." Even in the time of Henry VIII. in England, 
glass windows were considered a luxury. When the Duke of 
Northumberland, in Elizabeth's time, left Alnwick Castle to 
come to London for the winter, the few glass windows which 
formed one of the luxuries of the castle were carefully taken 
out and laid away, perhaps carried to London to adorn the city 
residence. 

846. The Alden family still retain John Alden's homestead 
in Duxbury, and the present house is said to stand on the site 
of the one originally built there. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 161 

Eaghorn, the snow-white bull, that had fallen to 

Alden's allotment 
In the division of cattle, might ruminate in the 

night-time 
850 Over the pastures he cropped, made fragrant by 

sweet pennyroyal. 

Oft when his labor was finished, with eager feet 

would the dreamer 
Follow the pathway that ran through the woods to 

the house of Priscilla, 
Led by illusions romantic and subtile deceptions 

of fancy, 
Pleasure disguised as duty, and love in the sem- 
blance of friendship. 
855 Ever of her he thought, when he fashioned the 

walls of his dwelling; 
Ever of her he thought, when he delved in the soil 

of his garden ; 
Ever of her he thought, when he read in his Bible 

on Sunday 
Praise of the virtuous woman, as she is described 

in the Proverbs, — 
How the heart of her husband doth safely trust in 

her always, 
860 How all the days of her life she will do him good, 

and not evil. 
How she seeketh the wool and the flax and work- 

eth with gladness, 
How she layeth her hand to the spindle and holdeth 

the distaff, 
How she is not afraid of the snow for herself or 

her household, 
Knowing her household are clothed with the scar- 
let cloth of her weaving! 
11 



162 LONGFELLOW. 

865 So as she sat at her wheel one afternoon in the 

Autumn, 
Alden, who opposite sat, and was watching her 

dexterous fingers. 
As if the thread she was spinning were that of his 

life and his fortune. 
After a pause in their talk, thus spake to the sound 

of the spindle. 
"Truly, Priscilla," he said, "when I see you 

spinning and spinning, 
870 Never idle a moment, but thrifty and thoughtful 

of others. 
Suddenly j'ou are transformed, are visibly changed 

in a moment ; 
You are no longer Pi'iscilla, but Bertha the Beau- 
tiful Spinner." 
Here the light foot on the treadle grew swifter 

and swifter ; the spindle 
Uttered an angry snarl, and the thread snapped 

short in her fingers; 
875 While the impetuous speaker, not heeding the mis- 
chief, continued : 
You are the beautiful Bertha, the spinner, the 

queen of Helvetia; 
She whose story I read at a stall in the streets of 

Southampton, 
Who, as she rode on her palfrey, o'er valley and 

meadow and mountain. 
Ever was spinning her thread from a distaff 

fixed to her saddle. 
880 She was so thrifty and good, that her name passed 

into a proverb. 

872. The legend of Bertha is given with various learning 
regarding it in a monograph entitled, Bertha die Spinnerin, by 
Karl Joseph Simrock, Frankfurt, 1853. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 163 

So shall it be with your own, when the spinning- 
wheel shall no longer 

Hum in the house of the farmer, and fill its cham- 
bers with music. 

Then shall the mothers, reproving, relate how it 
was in their childhood, 

Praising the good old times, and the days of Pris- 
cilla the spinner! " 
885 Straight uprose from her wheel the beautiful Puri- 
tan maiden. 

Pleased with the praise of her thrift from him 
whose praise was the sweetest, 

Drew from the reel on the table a snowy skein of 
her spinning. 

Thus making answer, meanwhile, to the flattering 
phrases of Alden: 

" Come, you must not be idle ; if I am a pattern 
for housewives, 
890 Show yourself equally worthy of being the model 
of husbands. 

Hold this skein on your hands, while I wind it, 
ready for knitting ; 

Then who knows but hereafter, when fashions 
have changed and the manners. 

Fathers may talk to their sons of the good old 
times of John Alden ! " 

Thus, with a jest and a laugh, the skein on his 
hands fhe adjusted, 
895 lie sitting awkwardly there, with his arms ex- 
tended before him. 

She standing graceful, erect, and winding the 
thread from his fingers. 

Sometimes chiding a little his clumsy manner of 
holding, 

Sometimes touching his hands, as she disentangled 
expertly 



164 LONGFELLOW. 

Twist or knot in the yarn, unawares — for how 
could she help it V — 
900 Sending electrical thrills through every nerve in 
his body. 

Lo! in the midst of this scene, a breathless 

messenger entered, 
Bringing in hurry and heat the terrible news from 

the village. 
Yes ; Miles Standish was dead! — an Indian had 

brought them the tidings, — 
Slain by a poisoned arrow, shot down in the front 

of the battle, 
905 Into an ambush beguiled, cut off with the whole 

of his forces ; 
All the town would be burned, and all the people 

be murdered ! 
Such were the tidings of evil that burst on the 

hearts of the hearers. 
Silent and statue-like stood Priscilla, her face 

looking backward 
Still at the face of the speaker, her arms uplifted 

in horror ; 
910 But John Alden, upstarting, as if the barb of the 

arrow 
Piercing the heart of his friend had struck his 

own, and had sundered 
Once and forever the bonds that held him bound 

as a captive, 
Wild with excess of sensation, the awful delight 

of his freedom. 
Mingled with pain and regret, unconscious of what 

he was doing, 
915 Clasped, almost with a groan, the motionless form 

of Priscilla, 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 165 

Pressing her close to his heart, as forever his own, 

and exclaiming: 
*' Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man 

put them asunder! " 

Even as rivulets twain, from distant and sepa- 
rate sources, 
Seeing each other afar, as they leap from the 

rocks, and pursuing 
920 Each one its devious path, but drawing nearer and 

nearer. 
Rush together at last, at their trysting-place in the 

forest; 
So these lives that had run thus far in separate 

channels, 
Coming in sight of each other, then swerving and 

flowing asunder, 
Parted by barriers strong, but drawing nearer and 

nearer, 
925 Rushed together at last, and one was lost in the 

other. 



IX. 



THE WEDDING-DAY. 

Forth from the curtain of clouds, from the tent of 
purple and scarlet. 

Issued the sun, the great High-Pi-iest, in his gar- 
ments resplendent, 

Holiness unto the Lord, in letters of light, on his 
forehead, 

Round the hem of his robe the golden bells and 
pomegranates. 

927. For a description of the Jewish high-priest and his dress, 
see Exodus, chapter xxviii. 



166 LONGFELLOW. 

930 Blessing the world he came, and the bars of vapor 
beneath him 
Gleamed like a grate of brass, and the sea at his 
feet was a laver ! 

This was the wedding morn of Priseilla the 

Puritan maiden. 
Friends were assembled together; the Elder and 

Magistrate also 
Graced the scene with their presence, and stood 

like the Law and the Gospel, 
935 One with the sanction of earth and one with the 

blessing of heaven. 
Simple and brief was the wedding, as that of Ruth 

and of Boaz. 
Softly the youth and the maiden repeated the 

words of betrothal, 
Taking each other for husband and wife in the 

Magistrate's presence. 
After the Puritan way, and the laudable custom of 

Holland. 
940 Fervently then and devoutly, the excellent Elder 

of Plymouth 
Prayed for the hearth and the home, that were 

founded that day in affection. 
Speaking of life and of death, and imploring Di- 
vine benedictions. 

939. "May 12 was the first marriage in this place, which, 
according to the laudable custome of the Low-Cuntries, in 
which they had lived, was thought most requisite to be per- 
formed by the magistrate, as being a civill thing, upon which 
many questions aboute inheritances doe depende, with other 
things most proper to their cognizans, and most consonante to 
the scripturs, Kuth 4. and no wher found in the gospell to be 
layed on the ministers as a part of their office." Bradford's 
History, p. 101. 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 167 

Lo! when the service was ended, a form ap- 
peared on the threshold, 

Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful 
figure ! 
945 Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the 
strange apparition? 

Why does the bride turn pale, and hide her face 
on his shoulder? 

Is it a phantom of air, — a bodiless, spectral illu- 
sion? 

Is it a ghost from the grave, that has come to for- 
bid the betrothal? 

Long had it stood there unseen, a guest uninvited, 
unwelcomed; 
950 Over its clouded eyes there had passed at times 
an expression 

Softening the gloom and revealing the warm heart 
hidden beneath them, 

As when across the sky the driving rack of the 
rain-cloud 

Grows for a moment thin, and betrays the sun by 
its brightness. 

Once it had lifted its hand, and moved its lips, 
but was silent, 

952. Rack, a Shaksperian word, used possibly in two senses, 
either as vapor, as in the thirty-third sonnet, — 
" Anou permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face," 
which is plainly the meaning here, or as a light, cirrus cloud, 
as in the Tempest, Act IV. Scene 1 : — 

" And like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind," 
although here, also, the meaning of vapor might be admissible. 
Bacon has defined rack : " The winds, which wave the clouds 
above, which we call the rack, and are not perceived below, 
pass without noise." 



168 LONGFELLOW. 

955 As if an iron will bad mastered the fleeting inten- 
tion. 

But wlien were ended the troth and the prayer 
and the last benediction, 

Into the room it strode, and the people beheld 
■with amazement 

Bodily there in his armor Miles Standish, the Cap- 
tain of Plymouth! 

Grasping the bridegroom's hand, he said with 
emotion, " Forgive me! 
960 I have been angry and hurt, — too long have I 
cherished the feeling; 

I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God! 
it is ended. 

Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins 
of Hugh Standish, 

Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning 
for error. 

Never so much as now was Miles Standish the 
friend of John Alden." 
965 Thereupon answered the bridegroom: " Let all be 
forgotten between us, — 

All save the dear, old fi-iendship, and that shall 
grow older and dearer! " 

Then the Captain advanced, and, bowing, saluted 
Prisoilla, 

Gravely, and after the manner of old-fashioned 
gentry in England, 

Something of camp and of court, of town and of 
country, commingled, 
970 "Wishing her joy of her wedding, and loudly laud- 
ing her husband. 

Then he said with a smUe: "I should have re- 
membered the adage, — 

If you would be well served, you must serve your 
self; and moreover, 



COURT snip OF MILES ST AN DISH. 169 

No man can gather chen-ies in Kent at the season 
of Christmas! " 

Great was the people's amazement, and greater 
yet their rejoicing, 
975 Thus to behold once more the sunburnt face of 
their Captain, 

WTiom they had mourned as dead ; and they gath- 
ered and crowded about him, 

Eager to see him and hear him, forgetful of bride 
and of bridegroom, 

Questioning, answering, laughing, and each inter- 
rupting the other. 

Till the good Captain declared, being quite over- 
powered and bewildered, 
980 He had rather by far break into an Indian encamp- 
ment. 

Than come again to a wedding to which he had 
not been invited. 

Meanwhile the bridegroom went forth and stood 

with the bride at the doorway, 
Breathing the perfumed air of that warm and 

beautiful morning. 
Touched with autumnal tints, but lonely and sad 

in the sunshine, 
985 Lay extended before them the laud of toil and 

privation ; 
There were the graves of the dead, and the barren 

waste of the sea-shore, 
There the familiar fields, the groves of pine, and 

the meadows ; 
But to their eyes transfigured, it seemed as the 

Garden of Eden, 
Filled with the presence of God, whose voice was 

the sound of the ocean. 



170 LONGFELLOW. 

990 Soon was their vision disturbed by the noise 
and stir of departure, 

Friends coming forth from the house, and impa- 
tient of longer delaying. 

Each with his plan for the day, and the work that 
was left uncompleted. 

Then from a stall near at hand, amid exclama- 
tions of wonder, 

Alden the thoughtful, the careful, so happy, so 
proud of Priscilla, 
995 Brought out his snow-white bull, obeying the hand 
of its master, 

Led by a cord that was tied to an iron ring in its 
nostrils, 

■Covered with crimson cloth, and a cushion placed 
for a saddle. 

She should not walk, he said, through the dust 
and heat of the noonday ; 

Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along 
like a peasant. 
1000 Somewhat alarmed at first, but reassured by the 
others, 

Placing her hand on the cushion, her foot in the 
hand of her husband, 

Gayly, with joyous laugh, Priscilla mounted her 
palfrey. 

"Nothing is wanting now," he said with a smile, 
" but the distaff ; 

Then you would be in truth my queen, my beau- 
tiful Bertha ! " 

1005 Onward the bridal procession now moved to 
their new habitation, 
Happy husband and wife, and friends convers- 



COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 171 

Pleasantly murmured tlie brook, as tliey crossed 
the ford in the forest, 

Pleased with the image that passed, like a dream 
of love through its bosom, 

Tremulous, floating in air, o'er the depths of the 
azure abysses. 
10 10 Down through the golden leaves the sun was 
pouring his splendors, 

Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches 
above them suspended, 

Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of 
the pine and the fir-tree. 

Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the 
valley of Eschol. 

Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pas- 
toral ages, 
I015 Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling 
Rebecca and Isaac, 

Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful 
always. 

Love immortal and young iu the endless succes- 
sion of lovers. 

So through the Plymouth woods passed onward 
the bridal procession. 



Miles Standish was not inconsolable. In the Fortune came a 
certain Barbara, wliose last name is unknown, whom Standish. 
married. He had six children, and many of his descendants 
are living. 



III. 

THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

[The form of this poem was perhaps suggested 
by Schiller's Song of the Bell, which, tracing the 
history of a bell from the first finding of the metal 
to the hanging of the bell in the tower, so mingles 
the history of human life with it that the Bell be- 
comes the symbol of humanity. Schiller's poem 
introduced a new artistic form which has since been 
copied more than once, but nowhere so successfully 
as in The Building of the Ship. The changes in 
the measure mark the quickening or retarding of 
the thought. The reader will be interested in 
watching these changes and observing the fitness 
with which the short lines express the quicker, 
more sudden, or hurried action, while the longer 
ones indicate lingering, moderate action or reflec- 
tion. TJie Building of the Ship is the first in a 
series of poems collected under the general title. 
By the Seaside, and published in a volume entitled, 
The Seaside and the Fireside, Boston, 1850.J 



" Build me straight, O worthy Master! 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 
That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wi'estle I 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 173 

5 The merchant's word 

Delighted the Master heard ; 

For his heart was in his work, and the heart 

Giveth grace unto every Art. 

A quiet smile played round his lips, 

lo As the eddies and dimples of the tide 
Play round the bows of ships, 
That steadily at anchor ride. 
And with a voice that was full of glee. 
He answered, " Ere long we will launch 

15 A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, 
As ever weathered a wintry sea I " 
And first with nicest skill and art. 
Perfect and finished in every part, 
A little model the Master wrought, 

20 Which should be to the larger plan 
What the child is to the man, 
Its counterpart in miniature; 
That with a hand more swift and sure 
The greater labor might be brought 

25 To answer to his inward thought. 
And as he labored, his mind ran o'er 
The various ships that were built of yore, 
And above them all, and strangest of all 
Towered the Great Harry, crank and tall, 

29. The Great Harry was a famous ship built for the Eng- 
lish navy in the reign of King Henry VII. Henry found the 
small navj' left by Edward IV. in a very weak condition and 
he undertook to reconstruct it. The most famous ship in Ed- 
ward's navy was named Grace a Dieu, and Henry named his 
Harry Grace a Dieu, but she was more generally named as the 
Great Harry. On the accession of Henry VIII, her name was 
changed to the Regent, but when a few years afterward she was 
burnt in an engagement with the French, the ship built in her 
place resumed the old name and became a second Great Harry. 



174 LONGFELLOW. 

30 Whose picture was hanging on the wall, 
With bows and stern raised high in air, 
And balconies hanging here and there, 
And signal lanterns and flags afloat, 
And eight round towers, like those that frown 

35 From some old castle, looking down 
Upon the drawbridge and the moat. 
And he said with a smile„ " Our ship, I wis, 
Shall be of another form than this ! " 

It was of another form, indeed; 

40 Built for freight, and yet for speed, 
A beautiful and gallant craft; 
Broad in the beam, that the stress of the blast, 
Pressing down upon sail and mast, 
Might not the sharp bows overwhelm; 

45 Broad in the beam, but sloping aft 
With graceful curve and slow degrees, 
That she might be docile to the helm. 
And that the currents of parted seas. 
Closing behind, with mighty force, 

50 Might aid and not impede her course. 

In the ship-yard stood the Master, 

With the model of the vessel. 
That should laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! 

It was this ship that the poet describes. She was a thousand 
tons burden, which was regarded as an immense size in those 
days, and her crew and armament were out of all proportion, as 
we should think now. She carried seven hundred men, and a 
hundred and twenty-two guns, but of these most were very 
small. Thirty-four were eighteen pounders, and were called 
culverins. There were also demi-culverins, or nine pounders, 
while the rest only carried one or two pounds and were variously 
named falcons, falconets, serpentines, sabinets. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 175 

55 Covering many a rood of ground, 
Lay tlie timber piled around; 
Timber of chestnut, and ehu, and oak, 
And scattered here and there, with these, 
The knarred and crooked cedar knees; 

60 Brought from regions far away. 
From Pascagoula's sunny bay, 
And the banks of the roaring Roanoke! 
Ah! what a wondrous thing it is 
To note how many wheels of toil 

65 One thought, one word, can set in motion I 
There 's not a ship that sails the ocean, 
But every climate, every soil, 
Must bring its tribute, great or small, 
And help to build the wooden wall ! 

70 The sun was rising o'er the sea, 
And long the level shadows lay, 
As if they, too, the beams would be 
Of some great, airy argosy, 

69. The wooden wall is of course the ship. The reference is 
to a proverbial expressioQ of very ancient date. When the 
Greeks sent to Delphi to ask how they were to defend them- 
selves against Xerxes, who had invaded their country, the oracle 
replied: — 

" Pallas hath urged, and Zeus the sire of all 
Hath safety promised in a wooden wall ; 
Seed-time and harvest, weeping sires shall tell 
How thousands fought at Salamis and fell." 
The Greeks interpreted this as a caution to trust in their navy, 
and the battle at Salamis resulted in the overthrow of the Per- 
sian and discomiiture of their fleet. 

73. A richl}' freighted ship. The word is formed from Argo, 
the name of the fabled ship which brought back the golden fleece 
from Colchis. Shakspere uses the word : as in the The Taming 
of the Shrew : — 

" That she shall have ; besides an argosy 
That now is lying in Marseilles' road." 

Act II. Scene 1. 



176 LONGFELLOW. 

Framed and launched in a single day. 
75 That silent architect, the sun, 

Had hewn and laid them every one, 

Ere the work of man was yet begun. 

Beside the Master, when he spoke, 

A youth, against an anchor leaning, 
80 Listened, to catch his slightest meaning. 

Only the long waves, as they broke 

In ripples on the pebbly beach, 

Interrupted the old man's speech. 

Beautiful they were, in sooth, 
85 The old man and the fiery youth! 

The old man, in whose busy brain 

Many a ship that sailed the main 

Was modelled o'er and o'er again; — 

The fiery youth, who was to be 
90 The heir of his dexterity. 

The heir of his house, and his daughter's hand. 

When he had built and launched from land 

What the elder head had planned. 

And in The Merchant of Venice : — 

"He hath an argosy bound to Trlpolis, another to the Indies; 1 
understand, moreover, upon the Kialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a 
fourth for England." Act I. Scene 3. 

87. The main is the great ocean as distinguished from the 
baj'S, gulfs, and inlets. Curiously enough, it means also the 
main-land, and was used in both senses by Elizabethan writers. 
In King Lear, Act III. Scene 1 : — 

" Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, 
Or swell the curled waters "bove the main " — 

some commentators take main to be the main-land, but a better 
sense seems to refer it to the open sea when a storm is raging. 
Yet the name of Spanish Main was given to the northern coast 
of South America when that country was taken possession of by 
Spain. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 177 

" Thus," said he, " will we build this ship I 
95 Lay square the blocks upon the slip, 

And follow well this plan of mine. 

Choose the timbers with greatest care ; 

Of all that is unsound beware; 

For only what is sound and strong 
loo To this vessel shall belong. 

Cedar of Maine and Georgia pine 

Here together shall combine. 

A goodly frame, and a goodly fame, 

And the Union be her name ! 
105 For the day that gives her to the sea 

Shall give my daughter unto thee ! ' ' 

The Master's word 

Enraptured the young man heard; 

And as he turned his face aside, 
no With a look of joy and a thrill of pride. 

Standing before 

Her father's door, 

He saw the form of his promised bride. 

The sun shone on her golden hair, 
115 And her cheek was glowing fresh and fair, 

With the breath of morn and the soft sea air. 

Like a beauteous barge was she, 

Still at rest on the sandy beach, 

95. The slip is the inclhied bank on which the ship is built. A 
similar meaning attaches to the use of the word locally in New 
York, where Peck Slip, Coenties Slip, Burling Slip, originally 
denoted the inclined openings between wharves. 

104. Here, as was noted in Schiller's Song of the Bell, the poet 
touches the ship with a special human interest and by his refer- 
ence to Maine cedar, and Georgia pine, half reveals the larger 
and wider sense of the building of the ship, which is disclosed 
at the end of the poem. 
12 



178 LONGFELLOW. 

Just beyond the billow's reach; 
120 But he 

Was the restless, seething, stormy sea! 

Ah, how skiKul grows the hand 
That obeyeth Love's command! 
It is the heart, and not the brain, 
125 That to the highest doth attain, 

And he who foUoweth Love's behest 
Far excelleth all the rest! 

Thus with the rising of the sun 
Was the noble task begun, 

130 And soon throughout the ship-yard's bounds 
Were heard the intermingled sounds 
Of axes and of mallets, plied 
With vigorous arms on every side; 
Plied so deftly and so well, 

135 That, ere the shadows of evening fell. 
The keel of oak for a noble ship. 
Scarfed and bolted, straight and strong, 
Was lying ready, and stretched along 
The blocks, well placed upon the slip. 

140 Happy, thrice happy, every one 
Who sees his labor well begun. 
And not perplexed and multiplied. 
By idly waiting for time and tide 1 

And when the hot, long day was o'er, 
145 The young man at the Master's door 
Sat with the maiden calm and still. 
And within the porch, a little more 
Removed beyond the evening chill. 
The father sat, and told them tales 
150 Of wrecks in the great September gales, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 179 

Of pirates coasting the Spanish Main, 
And ships that never came back again, 
The chance and change of a sailor's life, 
Want and plenty, rest and strife, 

155 His roving fancy, like the wind. 

That nothing can stay and nothing can bind, 
And the magic charm of foreign lands. 
With shadows of palms, and shining sands. 
Where the tumbling surf, 

160 O'er the coral reefs of Madagascar, 

Washes the feet of the swarthy Lascar, 
As he lies alone and asleep on the turf. 
And the trembling maiden held her breath 
At the tales of that awful, pitiless sea, 

165 With all its terror and mystery, 

The dim, dark sea, so like unto Death, 
That divides and yet unites mankind! 
And whenever the old man paused, a gleam 
From the bowl of his pipe would awhile illume 

170 The silent group in the twilight gloom, 
And thoughtful faces, as in a dream ; 
And for a moment one might mark 
What had been hidden by the dark. 
That the head of the maiden lay at rest, 

175 Tenderly, on the young man's breast! 

151. See note to line 87. Here the Spanish Main is used as 
is not infrequent for the waters bounded by the Spanish Main. 
Mr. Longfellow uses it again in the correct sense in the Wreck 
of the Hesperin : — 

" Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
' I pray thee put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane.' " 

153. "That among all the changes and chances of this mortal 
life, they may ever be defended by Thy most gracious and ready 
help." From a Collect in the Communion office, Book of Com- 
mon Prayer. 



180 LONGFELLOW. 

Day by day the vessel grew, 

With timbers fashioned strong and true, 

Stemson and keelson and sternson-knee, 

Till, framed with perfect symmetry, 
1 80 A skeleton ship rose up to view ! 

And around the bows and along the side 

The heavy hammers and mallets plied, 

Till after many a week, at length. 

Wonderful for form and strength, 
185 Sublime in its enormous bulk, 

Loomed aloft the shadowy hulk! 

And around it columns of smoke, upwreathing, 

Rose from the boiling, bubbling, seething 

Cauldron, that glowed, 
190 And overflowed 

With the black tar, heated for the sheathing. 

And amid the clamors 

Of clattering hammers. 

He who listened heard now and then 
195 The song of the Master and his men: — 

" Build me straight, O worthy Master, 
Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster. 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle! '* 

200 With oaken brace and copper band, 

Lay the rudder on the sand. 

That, like a thought, should have control 

Over the movement of the whole; 

And near it the anchor, whose giant hand 
205 Would reach down and grapple with the land, 

And immovable and fast 

Hold the great ship against the bellowing blast! 

And at the bows an image stood, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 181 

By a cunning artist carved in wood, 
2IO With robes of white, that far behind 

Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. 

It was not shaped in a classic mould, 

Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, 

Or Naiad rising from the water, 
215 But modelled from the Master's daughter! 

On many a dreary and misty night, 

'T will be seen by the rays of the signal light, 

Speeding along through the rain and the dark, 

Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, 
220 The pilot of some phantom bark, 

Guiding the vessel, in its flight, 

By a path none other knows aright! 

Behold, at last. 

Each tall and tapering mast 
225 Is swung into its place; 

214. Strictly speaking, the Naiad was a nymph, the nj'mphs 
being the inferior order of deities that were supposed to reside in 
different parts of nature, naiads in the sea, dryads in trees, 
oreads in mountains. 

215. Hawthorne has a charming story upon the romance of a 
figure-head in Browne's Wooden Image in Mosses from an Old 
Manse. 

219. Sarks or shifts were made first of silk, whence the name 
derived from the Latin sericiun, silk. 

225. Mr. Longfellow prints the following note to this and the 
two preceding lines : "I wish to anticipate a criticism on this 
passage by stating, that sometimes, though not usually, vessels 
are launched fully rigged and sparred. I have availed myself 
of the exception, as better suited to my purposes than the gen- 
eral rule ; but the reader will see that it is neither a blunder nor 
a poetic license. On this subject a friend in Portland, Maine, 
writes me thus : ' In this State, and also, I am told, in New 
York, ships are sometimes rigged upon the stocks, in order to 
save time, or to make a show. There was a fine, large ship 
launched last summer at Ellsworth, fully rigged and sparred. 



182 LONGFELLO W. 

Shrouds and stays 
Holding it firm and fast! 

Long ago, 

In the deer-haunted forests of Maine, 
230 When upon mountain and plain 

Lay the snow, 

They fell, — those lordly pines ! 

Those grand, majestic pines! 

'Mid shouts and cheers 
235 The jaded steers, 

Panting beneath the goad, 

Dragged down the weary, winding road 

Those captive kings so straight and tall, 

To be shorn of their streaming hair, 
240 And, naked and bare. 

To feel the stress and the strain 

Of the wind and the reeling main, 

Whose roar 

Would remind them forevermore 
24s Of their native forests they should not see again. 

And everywhere 
The slender, graceful spars 
Poise aloft in the air, 
And at the mast-head, 
250 White, blue, and red, 

A flag unrolls the stripes and stars. 

Ah! when the wanderer, lonely, friendless, 

In foreign harbors shall behold 

That flag unrolled. 

Some years ago a ship was launched here, with her rigging, 
spars, sails, and cargo aboard. She sailed the next day and 
was never heard of again ! I hope this will not be the fate of 
your poem ! ' " 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 183 

255 'T will be as a friendly hand 

Stretched out from his native land, 

Filling his heart with memories sweet and endless! 

All is finished I and at length 

Has come the bridal day 
260 Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched, 

And o'er the bay, 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
265 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old. 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 

Paces restless to and fro, 
270 Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest; 

And far and wide. 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 
275 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay, 
280 In honor of her marriage day. 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her like a veil descending. 

Ready to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

266. This and the next eighteen ]ines illustrate well the skill 
with which the poet changes the length of the lines to denote an 
impatient, abrupt, and as it were short breathing movement. 



184 LONGFELLOW. 

285 On the deck another bride 

Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck, 

290 Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said, 

The service read, 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head; 

And in tears the good old Master 

295 Shakes the brown hand of his son. 
Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 
In silence, for he cannot speak. 
And ever faster 
Down his own the tears begun to run. 

300 The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock, 
That has the ocean for its wold, 
That has the vessel for its fold, 
Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

305 Spake, with accents mild and clear, 
Words of warning, words of cheer. 
But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 
He knew the chart 
Of the sailor's heart, 

310 All its pleasures and its griefs. 
All its shallows and rocky reefs, 
All those secret currents, that flow 
With such resistless undertow. 
And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

315 The will from its moorings and its course. 
Therefore he spake, and thus said he: — 
" Like unto ships far off at sea. 
Outward or homeward bound, are we. 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 185 

Before, behind, and all around, 

320 Floats and swings the horizon's bound, 
Seems at its distant rim to rise 
And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 
And then again to tmm and sink, 
As if we could slide from its outer bi-ink. 

325 Ah ! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea that sinks and shelves. 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, 

330 Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 
Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 
Like the compass in its brazen ring, 
Ever level and ever true 

335 To the toil and the task we have to do. 
We shall sail securely, and safely reach 
The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 
The sights we see, and the sounds we hear, 
Will be those of joy and not of fear! " 

340 Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 
345 All around them and below. 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see! she stirs! 

337. The Fortunate Isles, or Isles of the Blest, were imagin- 
ary islands in the West, in classic m_vthology, set in a sea which 
was warmed by the rays of the declining sun. Hither the fa- 
vorites of the gods were borne and dwelt in endless joy. 



186 LONGFELLOW. 

She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 
350 The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
With one exulting, joyous bound, 
She leaps into the ocean's arms! 

And lo! from the assembled crowd 
355 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
That to the ocean seemed to say, 
" Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray, 
Take her to thy protecting arms. 
With all her youth and all her charms 1 " 

360 How beautiful she is ! How fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care! 
Sail forth into the sea, O ship! 

365 Through wind and wave, right onward steer! 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 

O gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
370 And safe from all adversity 

Upon the bosom of that sea 

Thy comings and thy goings be! 

For gentleness and love and trust 

Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
375 And in the wreck of noble lives 

Something immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 
Sail on, O Union, strong and great! 
Humanity with all its fears, 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 187 

380 With all the hopes of future years, 
Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What Workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

385 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge and what a heat 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 
'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 

390 'T is but the flapping of the sail. 
And not a rent made by the gale ! 
In spite of rock and tempest's roar, 
In spite of false lights on the shore. 
Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

395 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
Are all with thee, — are all with thee! 

393. The reference is to the treacherous display, by wreckers, 
of lights upon a dangerous coast, to attract vessels iu a storm, 
that they may be wrecked and become the spoil of the thieves. 

398. The closing lines gather into strong verses, like a choral, 
the cumulative meaning of the poem, which builds upon the 
material structure of the ship, the fancy of the bridal of sea and 
ship, the domestic life of man and the national life. 



Mr. Noah Brooks, in his paper on Lincoln's Imagination 
{Scribner'' s Monthly, August, 1879), mentions that he found the 
President one day attracted by these closing stanzas, which 
were quoted in a political speech: "Knowing the whole poem," 
he adds, "as one of ni}' early exercises in recitation, I began, at 
his request, with the description of the launch of the ship, and 
repeated it to the end. As he listened to the last lines [395-308], 
his eyes filled with tears, and his cheeks were wet. He did not 
speak for some minutes, but fiually said, with simplicity: 'It 
is a wonderful gift to be able to stir men like that.' " 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, of Quaker birth 
in Puritan surroundings, was born at the home- 
stead near Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 
1807. Until his eighteenth year he lived at home, 
working upon the farm and in the little shoemak- 
er's shop which nearly every farm then had as a 
resource in the otherwise idle hours of winter. The 
manual, homely labor upon which he was employed 
was in part the foundation of that deep interest 
which the poet never has ceased to take in the toil 
and plain fortunes of the people. Throughout his 
poetry runs this golden thread of sympathy with 
honorable labor and enforced poverty, and many 
poems are directly inspired by it. While at work 
with his father he sent poems to the Haverhill 
Gazette, and that he was not in subjection to his 
work is very evident by the fact that he trans- 
lated it and similar occupations into Songs of La- 
hor. He had two years academic training, and in 
1829 became editor in Boston of the American 
Manufacturer, a paper published in the interest of 
the tariff. In 1831 he published his Legends of 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 189 

New England, prose sketches in a department of 
literature which has always had strong claims upon 
his interest. No American writer, unless Irving 
be excepted, has done so much to throw a grace- 
ful veil of poetry and legend over the country of 
his daily life. Essex County in Massachusetts, 
and the beaches lying between Newburyport and 
Portsmouth, blossom with flowers of Whittier's 
planting. He has made rare use of the homely 
stories which he had heard in his childhood, and 
learned afterward from familiar intercourse with 
country people, and he has himself used invention 
delicately and in harmony with the spirit of the 
New England coast. Although of a body of men 
who in earlier days had been persecuted by the 
Puritans of New England, his generous mind has 
not failed to detect all the good that was in the 
stern creed and life of the persecutors, and to bring 
it forward into the light of his poetry. 

In 1836 he published Mogg Megone, a poem 
which stands first in the collected edition of his 
poems, and was admitted there with some reluc- 
tance, apparently, by the author. In that and the 
Bridal of Pennacook he draws his material from 
the relation held between the Indians and the set- 
tlers. His sympathy was always with the perse- 
cuted and oppressed, and while historically he 
found an object of pity and self-reproach in the 
Indian, his profoundest compassion and most stir- 
ring indignation were called out by African slavery. 
From the earliest he was upon the side of the ab- 



190 WIIITTIER. 

olition party. Year after year poems fell from his 
pen iu which with all the eloquence of his nature 
he sought to enlist his covmtrymen upon the side 
of emancipation and freedom. It is not too much 
to say that in the slow development of public sen- 
timent Whittier's steady song was one of the most 
powerful advocates that the slave had, all the more 
powerful that it was free from malignity or unjust 
accusation. 

Wliittier's poems have been issued in a number 
of small volumes, and collected into single larger 
volumes. Besides those already indicated, there 
are a number which owe their origin to his tender 
regard for domestic life and the simple experience 
of the men and women about him. Of these Snow- 
Bound is the most memorable. Then his fondness 
for a story has led him to use the ballad form in 
many cases, and Mabel Martin is one of a number, 
in which the narrative is blended with a fine and 
strong charity. The catholic mind of this writer 
and his instinct for discovering the pure moral in 
human action are disclosed by a number of poems, 
drawn from a wide range of historical fact, deal- 
ing with a great variety of religious faiths and cir- 
cumstances of life, but always pointing to some 
sweet and strong truth of the divine life. Of such 
are The Brother of Mercy, The Gift of Tritemiiis, 
The Two Ralbis, and others. Whittier's Prose 
Works are comprised in two volumes, and consist 
mainly of his contributions to journals and of 
Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal, a fictitious 
diary of a visitor to New England in 1678. 



snow-bound: 

A WINTER IDYL. 

" Ab the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits 
which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light 
of the Sun, but also by our common Wood Fire : and as the Celestial 
Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the 
sajne." — Cor. Agrippa, Occult Philosophy, Book I. ch. v. 

" Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 

JiMERSON, The Snow- Storm 

The sun that brief December day 
E,ose cheerless over hills of gray, 
And, dai'kly circled, gave at noon 
A sadder light than waning moon. 
5 Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
A portent seeming less than threat, 
It sank from sight before it set. 
A chill no coat, however stout, 

10 Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, 
A hard, dull bitterness of cold. 
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 
Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 
The coming of the snow-storm told. 

1 5 The wind blew east ; we heard the roar 



192 WHITTIER. 

Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 

And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 

Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 

20 Brought in the wood from out of doors, 
Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows : 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 

25 Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut bows ; 
While, peering fi-om his early perch 
Upon the scailold's pole of birch, 
The cock his crested helmet bent 

30 And down his querulous challenge sent. 
Unwarmed by any sunset light 
The gray day darkened into night, 
A night made hoary with the swarm. 
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 

35 As zigzag wavering to and fro 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow : 
And ere the early bedtime came 
The white drift piled the window-frame. 
And through the glass the clothes-line posts 

40 Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roai'ed on: 
The morning broke without a sun ; 
In tiny spherule traced with hues 
Of Nature's geometric signs, 
45 In starry flake, and pellicle 
All day the hoary meteor fell; 
And, when the second morning shone, 
We looked upon a world unknown, 



SNOW-BOUND. 193 

On nothing we could call our own. 
50 Around the glistening wonder bent 

Tlic blue walls of the firmament, 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sights of ours 
55 Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers 

Eose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 

Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, 

A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
60 The bridle-post an old man sat 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof. 

In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
65 Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive ndan, no breath 
Our father wasted: " Boys, a path! " 
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy 
Count such a summons less than joy ?) 
70 Our buskins on our feet we drew ; 

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low, 
To guard our necks and ears fi'om snow. 
We cut the solid whiteness through. 

65. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, in Itah', which inclines from 
the perpendicular a little more than six feet in eighty, is a cam- 
panile, or bell-tower, built of white marble, very beautiful, but 
BO famous for its singular deflection from perpendicularity as to 
be known almost wholly as a curiosity. Opinions differ as to 
the leaning being the result of accident or design, but the bet- 
ter judgment makes it an effect of the character of the soil on 
which it is built. The Cathedral to which it belongs has suf- 
fered so much from a similar cause that there is not a vertical 
Hue in it. 

13 



194 WHITTIER. 

And, wliere the drift was deepest, made 

75 A tunnel walled and overlaid 

With dazzling crystal : we had read 
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave, 
And to our own his name we gave, 
With many a wish the luck were ours 

80 To test his lamjj's supernal jjowers. 
We reached the barn with merry din. 
And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
The old horse thrust his long head out, 
And grave with wonder gazed about ; 

85 The cock his lusty greeting said, 
And forth his speckled harem led ; 
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked. 
And mild reproach of hunger looked; 
The horned patriarch of the sheep, 

90 Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep, 
Shook his sage head with gesture mute. 
And emphasized with stamp of foot. 

All day the gusty north -wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before; 
95 Low circling round its southern zone. 

The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. 

100 A solitude made more intense 
By dreary-voiced elements. 
The shrieking of the mindless wind. 
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
And on the glass the unmeaning beat 

105 Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 

90. Amun, or Ammon, was an Egyptian being, representing 
an attribute of Deity under the form of a ram. 



SNOW-BOUND. 195 

Beyond the circle of our hearth 

No welcome sound of toil or mirth 

Unbound the spell, and testified 

Of human life and thought outside. 
I lo We minded that the sharpest ear 

The buried brooklet could not hear, 

The music of whose liquid lip 

Had been to us companionship, 

And, in our lonely life, had grown 
115 To have an almost human tone. 

As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west. 
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank, 

120 We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the stout back-stick; 
The knotty forestick laid apart, 

125 And filled between with curious art 

The ragged brush; then, hovering near. 
We watched the first red blaze appear, 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 

130 Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
While radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became, 
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 

135 Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
The crane and pendent trammels showed, 
The Turk's heads on the andirons glowed; 
While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
The meaning of the miracle. 



196 WHITTIER. 

140 Whispered the old rhyme: " Under the tree, 
When fire outdoors hums merrily., 
There the witches are making tea." 

The moon above the eastern wood 
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood 

145 Transfigured in the silver flood, 

Its blown snows flashing cold and keen, 
Dead white, save where some shai'p ravine 
Took shadow, or the sombre green 
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 

150 Against the whiteness at their back. 
For such a world and such a night 
Most fitting that unwarming light, 
Which only seemed whei'e'er it fell 
To make the coldness visible. 

155 Shut in from all the world without. 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 
Content to let the north-wind roar 
In battle rage at pane and door, 
While the red logs before us beat 

160 The frost-Une back with tropic heat ; 
And ever, when a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed. 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed, 

165 The house-dog on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head. 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 

170 Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row. 



SNOW-BOUND. 197 

And, close at hand, tlie basket stood 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 

1 75 What matter how the night behaved ? 

What matter how the north-wind raved? 

Blow high, blow low, not all its snow 

Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow. 

O Time and Change ! — with hair as gray 
l8o As was my sire's that winter day, 

How strange it seems, with so much gone 

Of life and love, to still live on! 

Ah, brother! only I and thou 

Are left of all that circle now, — 
185 The dear home faces whereupon 

That- fitful firelight paled and shone. 

Henceforward, listen as we will, 

The voices of that hearth are still ; 

Look where we may, the wide earth o'er, 
190 Those lighted faces smile no more. 

We tread the paths their feet have worn. 
We sit beneath their orchard trees, 
AVe hear, like them, the hum of bees 

And rustle of the bladed corn ; 
195 We turn the pages that they read, 

Their written words we Unger o'er, 

But in the sun they cast no shade. 

No voice is heard, no sign is made. 
No step is on the conscious floor! 
200 Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, 

(Since He who knows our need is just,) 

That somehow, somewhere, meet we must. 

Alas for him who never sees 

The stars shine through his cypress-trees! 
205 Who, hopeless, lays his dead away. 

Nor looks to see the breaking day 



198 WHITTIER. 

Across the mournful marbles play ! 
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith, 

The truth to flesh and sense unknown, 
210 That Life is ever lord of Death, 

And Love can never lose its own ! 

We sped the time with stories old, 
Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told, 
Or stammered from our school-book lore 

215 " The chief of Gambia's golden shore." 
How often since, when all the land 
Was clay in Slavery's shaping hand. 
As if a trumpet called, I 've heard 
Dame Mercy Warren's rousing word: 

220 ' ' Does not the voice of reason cry. 

Claim the first right which Nature gave, 
From the red scourge of bondage fly, 

Nor deign to live a burdened slave ! " 
Our father rode again his ride 

225 On Memphremagog's wooded side; 
Sat down again to moose and samp 
In trapper's hut and Indian camp; 
Lived o'er the old idyllic ease 
Beneath St. Francois' hemlock-trees; 

230 Again for him the moonlight shone 
On Norman cap and bodiced zone; 
Again he heard the violin play 
Which led the village dance away, 
And mingled in its merry whirl 

235 The grandam and the laughing girl. 
Or, nearer home, our steps he led 

219. Mrs. Mercy Warren was the wife of James Warren, a 
prominent patriot at the beginning of the Revohition. Her 
poetry was read in an age tliat had in America little to read un- 
der that name; her society was sought by the best men. 



SNOW-BOUND. 199 

Where Salisbury's level marshes spread 

Mile- wide as flies the laden bee; 
Where merry mowers, hale and strong, 
240 Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along 
The low green prairies of the sea. 
We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, 
And round the rocky Isles of Shoals 
The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals; 
245 The chowder on the sand-beach made, 
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, 
With spoons of clam-shell from the pot. 
We heard the tales of witchcraft old, 
And dream and sign and marvel told 
250 To sleepy listeners as they lay 
Stretched idly on the salted hay, 
Adrift along the winding shores. 
When favoring breezes deigned to blow 
The square sail of the gundalow 
255 And idle lay the useless oars. 

Our mother, while she turned her wheel 

Or run the new-knit stocking-heel, 

Told how the Indian hordes came down 

At midnight on Cochecho town, 
260 And how her own great-uncle bore 

His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore. 

Recalling, in her fitting phrase. 
So rich and picturesque and free, 
(The common unrhymed poetry 
265 Of simple life and country ways,) 

The story of her early days, — 

She made us welcome to her home ; 

Old hearths grew wide to give us room ; 

We stole with her a frightened look 
259. Dover in New Hampshire. 



200 WHITTIER. 

270 At the gray wizard's conjiiring-book, 
The fame whereof went far and wide 
Through all the simple country side; 
We heard the hawks at twilight play, 
The boat-horn on Piscataqua, 

275 The loon's weird laughter far away ; 
We fished her little trout-brook, knew 
What flowers in wood and meadow grew. 
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown 
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down, 

280 Saw where in sheltered cove and bay 

The ducks' black squadron anchored lay. 
And heard the wild geese calling loud, 
Beneath the gray November cloud. 
Then, haply, with a look more grave, 

285 And soberer tone, some tale she gave 
From painful Sewel's ancient tome. 
Beloved in every Quaker home. 
Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom, 
Or Chalkley's Journal, old and quaint, — 

290 Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint! — 

286. William Sewel was the historian of the Quakers. Charles 
Lamb seemed to have a better opinion of the book than Whittier. 
In his essay A Quakers^ Meeting in Essays of Elia, he says: 
" Reader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend 
to you, above all church-narratives, to read Sewel's 'History 
of the Quakers.' .... It is far more edifying and affecting 
than anything you will read of Wesley or his colleagues." 

289. Thomas Chalkley was an Englishman of Quaker parent- 
age, born in 1675, who travelled extensively as a preacher, and 
finally made his home in Philadelphia. He died in 1749; his 
Journal was first published in 1747. His own narrative of the 
incident which the poet relates is as follows : " To stop their 
murmuring, I told them they should not need to cast lots, which 
was usual in such cases, which of us should die first, for I 
would freely offer up mv life to do them good. One said, ' God 
bless you! I will not eat any of you.' Auother said 'He would 



SNOW-BOUND. 201 

Who, when the dreary calms prevailed, 

And water-butt and bread-cask failed, 

And cruel, hungry eyes pursued 

His portly presence mad for food, 
295 With dark hints muttered under breath 

Of casting lots for life or death, 

Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies, 

To be himself the sacrifice. 

Then, suddenly, as if to save 
300 The good man from his living grave, 

A ripple on the water grew, 

A school of porpoise flashed in view. 

" Take, eat," he said, " and be content ; 

These fishes in my stead are sent 
305 By Him who gave the tangled ram 

To spare the child of Abraham." 

Our uncle, innocent of books. 

Was rich in lore of fields and brooks, 

The ancient teachers never dumb 

die before he would eat any of me;' and so said several. I 
can trulv say, on that occasion, at that time, my life was not 
dear to me, and that I was serious and ingenuous in my propo- 
sition: and as I was leaning over the side of the vessel, 
thoughtfully considering my proposal to the company, and look- 
ing in my mind to Him that made me, a very large dolphin 
came up towards the top or surface of the water, and looked me 
in the face; and I called the people to put a hook into the sea, 
and take him, for here is one come to redeem me (I said to 
them). And they put a hook into the sea, and the fish read- 
ily took it, and they caught him. He was longer than myself. 
I think he was about six feet long, and the largest that ever 
I saw. This plainly showed us that we ought not to distrust 
the providence of the Almighty. The people were quieted by 
this act of Providence, and murmured no more. We caught 
enough to eat plentifully of, till we got into the capos of Dela- 
ware." 



202 WHITTIER. 

310 Of Nature's unhoused lyceum. 

In moons and tides and weather wise, 
He read the clouds as prophecies, 
And foul or fair could well divine, 
By many an occult hint and sign, 

315 Holding the cunning-warded keys 
To all the woodcraft mysteries; 
Himself to Nature's heart so near 
That all her voices in his ear 
Of beast or bird had meanings clear, 

320 Like Apollonius of old, 

Who knew the tales the sparrows told. 
Or Hermes, who interpreted 
What the sage cranes of Nilus said; 
A simple, guileless, childlike man, 

325 Content to live where life began ; 
Strong only on his native grounds. 
The little world of sights and sounds 
Whose girdle was the parish bounds. 
Whereof his fondly partial pride 

330 The common features magnified. 
As Surrey hills to mountains grew 
In AVhite of Selborne's loving view, — 

310. The measure requires the accent ly'ceum, but in stricter 
use the accent is lyce'um. 

320. A philosopher born in the first century of the Christian 
era, of whom many strange stories were told, especially regard- 
ing his converse with birds and animals. 

322. Hermes Trismegistus, a celebrated Egyptian priest and 
philosopher, to whom was attributed the revival of geometry, 
arithmetic, and art among the Egyptians. He was little later 
than Apollonius. 

• 332. Gilbert White, of Selborne, England, was a clergyman 
who wrote the Natural History of Selborne, a minute, affection- 
ate, and charming description of what could be seen as it were 
from his own doorstep. The accuracy of his observation and 
the delightfulness of iiis manner have kept the book a classic. 



SNOW-BOUND. 203 

He told how teal and loon be shot, 

And how the eagle's eggs he got, 
335 The feats on pond and river done, 

The prodigies of rod and gun; 

Till, warming with the tales he told, 

Forgotten was the outside cold, 

The bitter wind unheeded blew, 
340 From ripening corn the pigeons flew, 

The partridge drummed i' the wood, the mink 

Went fishing down the river-brink. 

In fields with bean or clover gay. 

The woodchuck, like a hermit gray, 
345 Peered from the doorway of his cell ; 

The muskrat plied the mason's trade, 

And tier by tier his mud-walls laid ; 

And from the shagbark overhead 

The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell. 

350 Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer 
And voice in dreams I see and hear, — 
The sweetest woman ever Fate 
Perverse denied a household mate, 
IVbo, lonely, homeless, not the less 

355 Found peace in love's unselfishness, 
And welcome wheresoe'er she went, 
A calm and gracious element. 
Whose presence seemed the sweet income 
And womanly atmosphere of home, — 

360 Called up her girlhood memories. 
The huskings and the apple-bees. 
The sleigh-rides and the summer sails. 
Weaving through all the poor details 
And homespun warp of circumstance 

365 A golden woof-thread of I'omance. 
For well she kept her genial mood 



204 WillTTIER. 

And simple faith of maidenhood; 
Before her still a cloud-land lay, 
The mirage loomed across her way ; 

370 The morning dew, that dried so soon 
With others, glistened at her noon ; 
Through years of toil and soil and care, 
From glossy tress to thin gray hair, 
All unprofaned she held apart 

375 The virgin fancies of the heart. 
Be shame to him of woman born 
Who had for such but thought of scorn. 

There, too, our elder sister plied 
Her evening task the stand beside; 

380 A full, rich nature, free to trust, 
Truthful and almost sternly just, 
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act. 
And make her generous thought a fact, 
Keeping with many a light disguise 

385 The secret of self-sacrifice. 

O heart sore-tried ! thou hast the best 
That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest, 
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things ! 
How many a poor one's blessing went 

390 With thee beneath the low green tent 
Whose curtain never outward swings! 

As one who held herself a part 
Of all she saw, and let her heart 
Against the household bosom lean, 
395 Upon the motley-braided mat 

Our youngest and our dearest sat, 
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, 
Now bathed within the fadeless green 

398. Til' unfading fjreen would be harsher but more correct, 
since the termination less is added to nouns and not to verba. 



SNOW-BOUND. 205 

And holy peace of Paradise. 
400 Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, 
Or from the shade of saintly palms, 
Or silver reach of river calms, 
Do those large eyes behold me still ? 
With me one little year ago : — 
405 The chill weight of the winter snow 

For months upon her grave has lain ; 
And now, when summer south-winds blow 

And brier and harebell bloom again, 
I tread the pleasant paths we trod, 
410 I see the violet-sprinkled sod 

Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak 
The hillside flowers she loved to seek, 
Yet following me where'er I went 
With dark eyes full of love's content. 
415 The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills 
The air with sweetness; all the hills 
Stretch green to June's unclouded sky ; 
But still I wait with ear and eye 
For something gone which should be nigh, 
420 A loss in all familiar things, 

In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. 
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee, 

Am I not richer than of old ? 
Safe in thy immortality, 
425 What change can reach the wealth I hold ? 
What chance can mar the pearl and gold 
Thy love hath left in trust with me ? 
And while in life's late afternoon. 

Where cool and long the shadows grow, 
430 I walk to meet the night that soon 
Shall shape and shadow overflow, 
I cannot feel that thou art far. 
Since near at need the angels are ; 



206 WHITTIEK 

And when the sunset gates unbar, 
435 Shall I not see thee waiting stand, 
And, white against the evening star, 
The welcome of thy beckoning hand ? 

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule, 
The master of the district school 

440 Held at the fire his favored place; 
Its warm glow lit a laughing face 
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared 
The uncertain prophecy of beard. 
He teased the mitten-blinded cat, 

445 Played cross-pins on my uncle's hat. 
Sang songs, and told us what befalls 
In classic Dartmouth's college halls. 
Born the wild Northern hills among, 
From whence his yeoman father wrung 

450 By patient toil subsistence scant, 
Not competence and yet not want, 
He early gained the power to pay 
His cheerful, self-reliant way. 
Could doff at ease his scholar's gown 

455 To peddle wares from town to town ; 
Or through the long vacation's reach 
In lonely lowland districts teach. 
Where all the droll experience found 
At stranger hearths in boarding round, 

460 The moonlit skater's keen delight. 

The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
The I'ustic party, with its rough 
Accompaniment of blind-man's-buff. 
And whirling plate, and forfeits paid, 

465 His winter task a pastime made. 

Happy the snow-locked homes wherein 
He tuned his merry violin. 



SNOW-BOUND. 207 

Or played the athlete in the barn, 

Or held the good dame's winding yarn, 
470 Or mirth-provoking versions told 

Of classic legends rare and old, 

Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome 

Had all the commonplace of home. 

And little seemed at best the odds 
475 'Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods; 

Where Pindus-born Araxes took 

The guise of any grist-mill brook, 

And dread Olympus at his will 

Became a huckleberry hill. 

480 A careless boy that night he seemed ; 
But at his desk he had the look 
And air of one who wisely schemed, 
And hostage from the future took 
In trained thought and lore of book. 

485 Large-brained, clear-eyed, — of such as he 
Shall Freedom's young apostles be. 
Who, following in War's bloody trail. 
Shall every lingering wrong assail; 
All chains from limb and spirit strike, 

490 Uplift the black and white alike ; 
Scatter before their swift advance 
The darkness and the ignorance. 
The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth. 
Which nurtured Treason's monstrous growth, 

495 Made murder pastime, and the hell 
Of prison-torture possible ; 
The cruel lie of caste refute, 

476. Pindus is the mountain chain which, running from north 
to south, nearly bisects Greece. Five rivers talie their rise from 
the central peak, the Aous, the Arachthus, the Haliacmon, the 
Peneus, and the Acheloua. 



208 WHITTIER. 

Old forms remould, and substitute 

For Slavery's lash the freeman's will, 
500 For bhnd routine, wise-handed skill ; 

A school-house plant on every hill, 

Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence 

The quick wires of intelligence ; 

Till North and South together brought 
505 Shall own the same electric thought, 

In peace a common flag salute, 

And, side by side in labor's free 

And unresentful rivalry. 

Harvest the fields wherein they fought. 

510 Another guest that winter night 

Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light. 
Unmarked by time, and yet not young, 
The honeyed music of her tongue 
And words of meekness scarcely told 

515 A nature passionate and bold, 

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide, 
Its milder features dwarfed beside 
Her unbent will's majestic pride. 
She sat among us, at the best, 

520 A not unfeared, half-welcome guest, 
Rebuking with her cultured phrase 
Our homeliness of words and ways. 
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace 

Swayed the lithe limbs and dropped the 
lash, 

525 Lent the white teeth their dazzling flasli ; 
And under low brows, black with night, 
Rayed out at times a dangerous light; 
The shai-p heat-lightnings of her face 
Presaging ill to him whom Fate 

530 Condemned to share her love or hate. 



SNOW-BOUND. 209 

A womnn tropical, intense 

In thought and act, in soul and sense, 

She blended in a like degi'ee 

The vixen and the devotee, 
535 Revealing with each freak or feint 
The temper of Petruchio's Kate, 

The raptures of Siena's Saint. 

Her tapering hand and rounded wrist 

Had facile power to form a fist; 
540 The warm, dark languish of her eyes 

Was never safe from wrath's surprise. 

Brows saintly calm and lips devout 

Knew every change of scowl and pout; 

And the sweet voice had notes more high 
545 And shrill for social battle-cry. 

Since then what old cathedral town 

Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown, 

What convent-gate has held its lock 

Against the challenge of her knock ! 
550 Through Smyrna's plague-hushed thoroughfares, 

Up sea-set Malta's rocky stairs. 

Gray olive slopes of hills that hem 

Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem, 

Or startling on her desert throne 
555 The crazy Queen of Lebanon 

With claims fantastic as her own. 

Her tireless feet have held their way ; 

And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray, 

536. See Shakspere's comedy of the Taming of the Shrew. 

537. St. Catherine of Siena, who is represented as having 
wonderful visions. She made a vow of silence for three j'ears. 

555. An interesting account of Lady Hester Stanhope, an 
English gentlewoman who led a singular life on Mount Leb- 
anon in Sj'ria, will be found in Kinglake's Eothen, chapter 
viii. 

14 



210 WHITTIER. 

She watches under Eastern skies, 
560 With hope each day renewed and fresh, 
The Lord's quick coming in the flesh,. 
Whereof she dreams and prophesies! 

Where'er her troubled path may be, 

The Lord's sweet pity with her go ! 
565 The outward wayward Hfe we see, 

The hidden springs we may not know. 
Nor is it given us to discern 

What threads the fatal sisters spun. 

Through what ancestral years has run 
570 The sorrow with the woman born, 

A\Tiat forged her cruel chain of moods. 
What set her feet in solitudes. 

And held the love within her mute, 
What mingled madness in the blood, 
575 A lifelong discord and annoy, 

Water of tears with oil of joy. 
And hid within the folded bud 

Perversities of flower and fruit. 
It is not ours to separate 
580 The tangled skein of will and fate, 

To show what metes and bounds should stand 
Upon the soul's debatable land, 

562. This not un-f eared, half-welcome guest was Miss Harriet 
Livermore, daughter of Judge Liverniore of New. Hampshire. 
She was a woman of fine powers, but wayward, wild, aiidentlm- 
siastic. She went on an independent mission to the Western 
Indians, whom she, in common with some others, believed to be 
remnants of the lost tribes of Israel. At the time of this narra- 
tive she was about twenty-eight years old, but much of her life 
afterward was spent in the Orient. She was at one time the 
companion and friend of Lady Hester Stanhope, but finally quar- 
reled with ber about the use of the holy horses kept in the stable 
in waiting for the Lord's ride to Jerusalem at the second advent. 



SNOW-BOUND. 211 

And between choice and Providence 
Divide the circle of events ; 
585 But He who knows our frame is just, 
Merciful and compassionate, 
And full of sweet assurances 
And hope for all the language is, 
That He remembereth we are dust! 

590 At last the great logs, crumbling low. 
Sent out a dull and duller glow, 
The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
Ticking its weary circuit through, 
Pointed with mutely-warning sign 

595 Its black hand to the hour of nine. 
That sign the pleasant circle broke : 
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray, 
And laid it tenderly away, 

600 Then roused himself to safely cover 
The dull red brands with ashes over. 
And while, with care, our mother laid 
The work aside, her steps she stayed 
One moment, seeking to express 

605 Her grateful sense of happiness 

For food and shelter, warmth and health. 
And love's contentment more than wealth, 
With simple wishes (not the weak, 
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek, 

610 But such as warm the generous heart, 
O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part) 
That none might lack, that bitter night. 
For bread and clothing, warmth and light. 

Within our beds awhile we heard 
615 The wind that round the gables roared, 



212 WHITTIER. 

With now and then a ruder shock, 
Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
The board-nails snapping in the frost ; 

620 And on us, thi'ough the unplastered wall, 
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall. 
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 
When hearts are light and life is new; 
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 

625 Till in the summer-land of dreams 

They softened to the sound of streams, 
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars. 
And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 

Next morn we wakened with the shout 
630 Of merry voices high and clear ; 

And saw the teamsters drawing near 

To break the drifted highways out. 

Down the long hillside treading slow 

We saw the half-buried oxen go, 
635 Shaking the snow from heads uptost. 

Their straining nostrils white with frost. 

Before our door the straggling train 

Drew up, an added team to gain. 

The elders threshed their hands a-cold, 
640 Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes 
From lip to lip; the younger folks 

Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled. 

Then toiled again the cavalcade 

O'er windy hill, through clogged ravine, 
645 And woodland paths that wound between 

Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed. 

From every barn a team afoot, 

At every house a new recruit. 

Where, drawn by Nature's subtlest law 



SNOW-BOUND. 213 

650 Haply the watchful young men saw 
Sweet doorway pictures of the cui'ls 
And curious eyes of merry girls, 
Lifting their hands in mock defence 
Against the snow-ball's compliments, 

655 And reading in each missive tost 
The charm with Eden never lost. 

We heard once more the sleigh-bells' sound ; 

And, following where the teamsters led. 
The wise old Doctor went his round, 
660 Just pausing at our door to say. 
In the brief autocratic way 
Of one who, prompt at Duty's call, 
Was free to urge her claim on all, 

That some poor neighbor sick abed 
665 At night our mother's aid would need. 
For, one in generous thought and deed, 

What mattered in the sufferer's sight 

The Quaker matron's inward light. 
The Doctor's mail of Calvin's creed? 
670 All hearts confess the saints elect 

Who, twain in faith, in love agree, 
And melt not in an acid sect 

The Christian pearl of charity! 

So days went on : a week had passed 
675 Since the great world was heard from last. 

The Almanac we studied o'er. 

Read and reread our little store 

Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score; 

One harmless novel, mostly hid 
680 From younger eyes, a book forbid, 

659. The wise old Doctor was Dr. Weld of Haverhill, an able 
man, who died at the age of ninety-six. 



214 WHIT TIER. 

And poetry, (or good or bad, 

A single book was all we had,) 

Where Ellwood's meek, drab-skirted Muse, 
A stranger to the heathen Nine, 
685 Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine, 

The wars of David and the Jews. 

At last the floundering carrier bore 

The village paper to our door. 

Lo! broadening outward as we read, 
690 To warmer zones the horizon spread; 

In panoramic length unrolled 

We saw the marvels that it told. 

Before us passed the painted Creeks, 
And daft McGregor on his raids 
695 In Costa Rica's everglades. 

And up Taygetus winding slow 

Rode Ypsilanti's Mainote Greeks, 

A Turk's head at each saddle-bow! 

Welcome to us its week-old news, 
700 Its corner for the rustic Muse, 

683. Thomas Ellwood, one of the Society of Friends, a con- 
temporary and friend of Milton, and the suggestor of Paradise 
Regaintd, wrote an epic poem in five books, called Davideis, 
the life of King David of Israel. He wrote the book, we are 
told, for bis own diversion, so it was not necessary that others 
should be diverted by it. Ellwood's autobiography, a quaint 
and delightful book, has recently been issued in Howells's series 
of Choice Autobiography. 

693. Referring to the removal of the Creek Indians from Geor- 
gia to beyond the Mississippi. 

694. In 1822 Sir Gregor McGregor, a Scotchman, began an 
ineffectual attempt to establish a colony in Costa Rica. 

697. Taygetus is a mountain on the Gulf of Messenia in 
Greece, and near bj^ is the district of Maina, noted for its rob- 
bers and pirates. It was from these mountaineers that Ypsi- 
lanti, a Greek patriot, drew his cavalry in the struggle with Tur- 
kej', which resulted in the independence of Greece. 



SNOW-BOUND. 215 

Its monthly gauge of snow and rain, 

Its record, mingling in a breath 

The wedding knell and dirge of deatli; 

Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale, 
705 The latest culprit sent to jail; 

Its hue and cry of stolen and lost, 

Its vendue sales and goods at cost. 
And traffic calling loud for gain. 

We felt the stir of hall and street, 
710 The pulse of life that round us beat; 

The chill embargo of the snow 

Was melted in the genial glow; 

Wide swung again our ice-locked door, 

And all the world was ours once more ! 

715 Clasp, Angel of the backward look 
And folded wings of ashen gray 
And voice of echoes far away. 
The brazen covers of thy book ; 
The weird palimpsest old and vast, 
720 Wherein thou hid'st the spectral past; 
AVhere, closely mingling, pale and glow 
The characters of joy and woe; 
The monographs of outlived years, 
Or smile-illumed or dim with tears, 
725 Green hills of life that slope to death. 
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees 
Shade off to mournful cypresses 

With the white amaranths underneath. 
Even while I look, I can but heed 
730 The restless sands' incessant fall. 
Importunate hours that hours succeed. 
Each clamorous with its own sharp need, 
And duty keeping pace with all. 



216 WHITTIER. 

Shut down and clasp the heavy lids; 
735 I hear again the voice that bids 

The dreamer leave his dream midway 
For larger hopes and graver fears: 
Life greatens in these later years, 
The century's aloe flowers to-day! 

740 Yet, haply, in some lull of life. 

Some Truce of God which breaks its strife, 
The wordling's eyes shall gather dew, 

Dreaming in throngful city ways 
Of winter joys his boyhood knew; 

745 And dear and early friends — the few 

Who yet remain — shall pause to view 

These Flemish pictures of old days; 

Sit with me by the homestead hearth, 

And stretch the hands of memory forth 

750 To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze! 
And thanks untraced to lips unknown 
Shall greet me like the odors blown 
From unseen meadows newly mown. 
Or lilies floating in some pond, 

755 Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond; 
The traveller owns the grateful sense 
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence, 
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
The benediction of the air. 

741. The name is drawn from a historic compact in 1040, 
when the Church forbade the barons to make anj' attack on each 
other between sunset on Wednesday and sunrise on the follow- 
ing Mondaj', or upon any ecclesiastical fast or feast day. It 
also provided that no man was to molest a laborer working in 
the fields, or to laj' hands on any implement of husbandry, on 
pain of excommunication. 

747. The Flemish school of painting was chiefly occupied 
with liomely interiors. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 217 

II. 
AMONG THE HILLS. 

PRELUDE. 

Along the roadside, like the flowers of gold 
That tawny Incas for their gardens wrought, 
Heavy with sunshine droops the golden-i'od, 
And the red pennons of the cardinal-flowers 
5 Hang motionless upon their upright staves. 
The sky is hot and hazy, and the wind, 
Wing- weary with its long flight from the south, 
Unfelt; yet, closely scanned, yon maple leaf 
With faintest motion, as one stirs in dreams, 

10 Confesses it. The locust by the wall 

Stabs the noon-silence with his sharp alarm. 

A single hay-cart down the dusty road 

Creaks slowly, with its driver fast asleep 

On the load's top. Against the neighboring hill, 

15 Huddled along the stone wall's shady side. 
The sheep show white, as if a snowdrift still 
Defied the dog- star. Through the open door 
A drowsy smell of flowers — gray heliotrope, 
And white sweet clover, and shy mignonette — 

20 Comes faintly in, and silent chorus lends 
To the pervading symphony of peace. 

No time is this for hands long over-worn 

To task their strength: and (unto Him be praise 

Who giveth quietness!) the stress and strain 

2. The Incas were the kings of the ancient Peruvians. At 
Yucay, their favorite residence, the gardens, according to Pres- 
cott, contained "forms of vegetable life skillfully imitated in 
gold and silver." See History of the Conquest of Peru, i. 130, 



218 WHITTIER. 

25 Of years that did the work of centuries 

Have ceased, and we can draw our breath once 

more 
Freely and full. So, as yon harvesters 
Make glad their nooning underneath the elms 
With tale and riddle and old snatch of song, 

30 I lay aside grave themes, and idly turn 

The leaves of memory's sketch-book, dreaming 

o'er 
Old summer pictures of the quiet hills, 
And human life, as quiet, at their feet. 

And yet not idly all. A farmer's son, 

35 Proud of field-lore and harvest craft, and feeling 
All their fine possibilities, how rich 
And restful even poverty and toil 
Become when beauty, harmony, and love 
Sit at their humble hearth as angels sat 

40 At evening in the patriarch's tent, when man 
Makes labor noble, and his farmer's frock 
The symbol of a Christian chivalry 
Tender and just and generous to her 
Who clothes with grace all duty; still, I know 

45 Too well the picture has another side, 
How wearily the grind of toil goes on 
Where love is wanting, how the eye and ear 
And heart are starved amidst the plenitude 
Of nature, and how hard and colorless 

50 Is life without an atmosphere. I look 
Across the lapse of half a century. 
And call to mind old homesteads, where no flower 
Told that the spring had come, but evil weeds, 
Nightshade and rough-leaved burdock in the place 

26. The volume in which this poem stands first, and. to which 
it gives the name, was published in the fall of 1868. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 219 

55 Of the sweet doorway greeting of the rose 

And honeysuckle, where the house walls seemed 
Blistering in sun, without a tree or vine 
To cast the tremulous shadow of its leaves 
Across the curtainless windows from whose panes 

60 Fluttered the signal rags of shiftlessness ; 
Within, the cluttered kitchen floor, unwashed 
(Broom-clean I think they called it) ; the best 

room 
Stifling with cellar damp, shut from the air 
Tu hot midsummer, bookless, pictui'eless 

65 Save the inevitable sampler hung 

Over the fireplace, or a mourning piece, 
A green-haired woman, peony-cheeked, beneath 
Impossible willows ; the wide-throated hearth 
Bristling with faded pine-boughs half concealing 

70 The piled-up rubbish at the chimney's back; 
And, in sad keeping with all things about them, 
Shrill, querulous women, sour and sullen men, 
Untidy, loveless, old before their time, 
"With scarce a human interest save their own 

75 Monotonous round of small economies, 
Or the poor scandal of the neighborhood; 
Blind to the beauty everywhere revealed, 
Treading the May-flowers with regardless feet; 
For them the song-sparrow and the bobolink 

80 Sang not, nor winds made music in the leaves; 
For them in vain October's holocaust 
Burned, gold and crimson, over all the hills, 
The sacramental mystery of the woods. 
Church-goers, fearful of the unseen Powers, 

85 But grumbling over pulpit-tax and pew-rent, 
Saving, as shrewd economists, their souls 
And winter pork with the least possible outlay 
Of salt and sanctity; in daily life 



220 WHITTIER. 

Showing as little actual comprehension 
90 Of Christian charity and love and duty, 
As if the Sermon on the Mount had been 
Outdated like a last year's almanac : 
Rich in broad woodlands and in half-tilled fields, 
And yet so pinched and bare and comfortless, 
95 The veriest straggler limping on his rounds, 
Tbe sun and air his sole inheritance, 
Laughed at poverty that paid its taxes, 
And hugged his rags in self-complacency ! 

Not such should be the homesteads of a land 
100 Where whoso wisely wills and acts may dwell 
As king and lawgiver, in broad-acred state, 
AVith beauty, art, taste, culture, books, to make 
His hour of leisure richer than a life 
Of fourscore to the barons of old time, 
105 Our yeoman should be equal to his home 
Set in the fair, green valleys, purple walled, 
A man to match his mountains, not to creep 
Dwarfed and abased below them, I would fain 
In this light way (of which I needs must own 
no With the knife-grinder of whom Canning sings, 
" Story, God bless you! I have none to tell you! ") 
Invite the eye to see and heart to feel 
The beauty and the joy within their reach, — 
Home, and home loves, and the beatitudes 

110. The Anti-Jacobin was a periodical published in England 
in 1797-98, to ridicule democratic opinions, and in it Canning, 
who afterward became premier of England, wrote many light 
verses and jeiix d'esprit, among them a humorous poem called 
the Needy Knife- Grinder, in burlesque of a poem by Southey. 
The knife-grinder is anxiously appealed to to tell his story of 
wrong and injustice, but answers as here : — 

" Story, God bless you ! I "re none to tell." 



AMONG THE HILLS. 221 

115 Of nature free to all. Haply in years 
That wait to take the places of our own, 
Heard where some breezy balcony looks down 
On happy homes, or where the lake in the moon 
Sleeps dreaming of the mountains, fair as Ruth, 

i20 In the old Hebrew pastoral, at the feet 
Of Boaz, even this simple lay of mine 
May seem the bui'den of a prophecy, 
Finding its late fulfilment in a change 
Slow as the oak's gi'owth, lifting manhood up 

125 Through broader culture, finer manners, love, 
And reverence, to the level of the hills. 

O Golden Age, whose light is of the dawn, 
And not of sunset, forward, not behind, 
Flood the new heavens and earth, and with thee 
bring 

130 All the old virtues, whatsoever things 
Are pure and honest and of good repute, 
But add thereto whatever bard has sung 
Or seer has told of when in trance and dream 
They saw the Happy Isles of prophecy ! 

135 Let Justice hold her scale, and Truth divide 

Between the right and wrong; but give the heart 

The freedom of its fair inheritance; 

Let the poor prisoner, cramped and starved so 

long, 
At Nature's table feast his ear and eye 

140 With joy and wonder; let all harmonies 
Of sound, form, color, motion, wait upon 
The princely guest, whether in soft attire 
Of leisure clad, or the coarse frock of toil. 
And, lending life to the dead form of faith, 

145 Give human nature reverence for the sake 
134. See note to 1. 337, p. 185. 



222 WHITTIER. 

Of One who bore it, making it divine 
With the ineffable tenderness of God ; 
Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer, 
The heirship of an unknown destiny, 

150 The unsolved mystery round about us, make 
A man more precious than the gold of Ophir. 
Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all things 
Should minister, as outward types and signs 
Of the eternal beauty which fulfils 

155 The one great purpose of creation, Love, 
The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven ! 



AMONG THE HILLS. 

For weeks the clouds had raked the hills 

And vexed the vales with raining. 
And all the woods were sad with mist, 
160 And all the brooks complaining. 

At last, a sudden night-storm tore 

The mountain veils asunder. 
And swept the valleys clean before 

The besom of the thunder. 

165 Through Sandwich notch the west- wind sang 
Good morrow to the cotter; 
And once again Chocorua's horn 
Of shadow pierced the water. 

165. Sandwich Notch, Chocorua Mountain, Ossipee Lake and 
the Bearcamp River, are all striking features of the scenery in 
that part of New Hampshire which lies just at the entrance of 
the White Mountain region. Many of AVhittier's most graceful 
poems are drawn from the suggestions of this country, where he 
has been wont to spend his summer months of late, and a mount- 
ain near West Ossipee has received his name. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 223 

Above his broad lake Ossipee, 
170 Once more the sunshine wearing, 
Stooped, tracing on that silver shield 
His grim armorial bearing. 

Clear drawn against the hard blue sky 
The peaks had winter's keenness; 
175 And, close on autumn's frost, the vales 
Had more than June's fresh greenness. 

Again the sodden forest floors 

With golden lights were checkered, 
Once more rejoicing leaves in wind 
180 And sunshine danced and flickered. 

It was as if the summer's late 

Atoning for its sadness 
Had borrowed every season's charm 

To end its days in gladness. 

185 I call to mind those banded vales 
Of shadow and of shining. 
Through which, my hostess at my side, 
I drove in day's declining. 

We held our sideling way above 
190 The river's whitening shallows, 

By homesteads old, with wide-flung barns 
Swept through and through by swallows, — 

By maple orchards, belts of pine 
And larches climbing darkly 
195 The mountain slopes, and, over all. 
The great peaks rising starkly. 



224 WHITTIER. 

You should have seen that long hill-range 

AVith gaps of brightness riven, — 
How through each pass and hollow streamed 
200 The purpling lights of heaven, — 

Rivers of gold-mist flowing down 
From far celestial fountains, — 

The great sun flaming through the rifts 
Beyond the wall of mountains! 

205 We paused at last where home-bound cows 
Brought down the pasture's treasure, 
And in the barn the rhythmic flails 
Beat out a harvest measure. 

We heard the night-hawk's sullen plunge, 
210 The crow his tree-mates calling: 

The shadows lengthening down the slopes 
About our feet were falling, 

And through them smote the level sun 
In broken lines of splendor, 
215 Touched the gray rocks and made the green 
Of the shorn grass more tender. 

The maples bending o'er the gate. 
Their arch of leaves just tinted 
With yellow warmth, the golden glow 
220 Of coming autumn hinted. 

Keen white between the farm-house showed, 
And smiled on porch and trellis, 

The fair democracy of flowers 
That equals cot and palace. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 225 

225 And weaving garlands for her dog, 
'Twixt chidings and caresses, 
A human flower o£ childhood shook 
The sunshine from her tresses. 

On either hand we saw the signs 
230 Of fancy and of shrewdness. 

Where taste had wound its arms of vines 
Round thrift's uncomely rudeness. 

The sun-brown farmer in his frock 
Shook hands, and called to Mary: 
235 Bare-armed, as Juno might, she came, 
White-aproned fi-om her dairy. 

Her air, her smile, her motions, told 

Of womanly completeness; 
A music as of household songs 
240 Was in her voice of sweetness. 

Not beautiful in curve and line, 
But something more and better, 

The secret charm eluding art. 
Its spirit, not its letter ; — 

245 An inborn grace that nothing lacked 
Of culture or appliance, — 
The warmth of genial courtesy, 
The calm of self-reliance. 

Before her queenly womanhood 
250 How dared our hostess utter 
The paltry errand of her need 
To buy her fresh-churned butter? 
15 



226 WHITTIER. 

She led the way with housewife pride, 
Her goodly store disclosing, 
255 Full tenderly the golden balls 

With practised hands disposing. 

Then, while along the western hills 
We watched the changeful glory 
Of sunset, on our homeward way, 
260 I heard her simple story. 

The early crickets sang ; the stream 

Plashed through my friend's narration : 

Her rustic patois of the hills 
Lost in my free translation. 

265 "More wise," she said, " than those who swarm 
Our hills in middle summer, 
She came, when June's first roses blow, 
To greet the early comer. 

" From school and ball and rout she came, 
270 The city's fair, pale daughter. 
To drink the wine of mountain air 
Beside the Bearcamp Water. 

*' Her step grew firmer on the hills 
That watch our homesteads over; 
275 On cheek and lip, from summer fields, 
She caught the bloom of clover. 

" For health comes sparkling in the streams 

From cool Chocorua stealing : 
There 's iron in our Northern winds ; 
280 Our pines are trees of healing. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 227 

" She sat beneath the broad-armed elms 

That skirt the mowing-meadow, 
And watched the gentle west-wind weave 

The grass with shine and shadow. 

285 " Beside her, from the summer heat 
To share her grateful screening. 
With forehead bared, the farmer stood, 
Upon his pitchfork leaning. 

" Framed in its damp, dark locks, his face 
290 Had nothing mean or common, — 
Strong, manly, true, the tenderness 
And pride beloved of woman. 

*' She looked up, glowing with the health 
The country air had brought her, 
295 And, laughing, said: ' You lack a wife, 
Your mother lacks a daughter. 

" ' To mend your frock and bake your bread 

You do not need a lady: 
Be sure among these brown old homes 
300 Is some one waiting ready, — 

" ' Some fair, sweet girl with skilful hand 

And cheerful heart for treasure, 
Wlio never played with ivory keys. 

Or danced the polka's measure.' 

305 " He bent his black brows to a frown, 
He set his white teeth tightly. 
' 'Tis well,' he said, ' for one like you 
To choose for me so lightly. 



228 WHITTIER. 

" ' You think, because my life is rude 
310 I take no note of sweetness: 
I tell you love has naught to do 
With meetness or unmeetness. 

" ' Itself its best excuse, it asks 
No leave of pride or fashion 
315 When silken zone or homespun frock 
It stirs with throbs of passion. 

" ' You think me deaf and blind: you bring 

Your winning graces hither 
As free as if from cradle-time 
320 We two had played together. 

" ' You tempt me with your laughing eyes, 
Your cheek of sundown's blushes, 

A motion as of waving grain, 
A music as of thrushes. 

325 " ' The plaything of your summer sport, 
The spells you weave around me 
You cannot at your will undo. 
Nor leave me as you found me. 

" ' You go as lightly as you came, 
330 Your life is well without me; 

What care you that these hills will close 
Like prison-walls about me ? 

" 'No mood is mine to seek a wife. 
Or daughter for my mother: 
335 Who loves you loses in that love 
All power to love another! 



AMONG THE HILLS. 229 

" ' I dare your pity or your scorn, 

With pride your own exceeding ; 
I fling my heart into your lap 
340 Without a word of pleading.' 

" She looked up in his face of pain 

So archly, yet so tender: 
' And if I lend you mine,' she said, 

' Will you forgive the lender ? 

345 ' ' • Nor frock nor tan can hide the man ; 
And see you not, my farmer, 
How weak and fond a woman waits 
Behind this silken armor ? 

" ' I love you: on that love alone, 
350 And not my worth, presuming. 
Will you not trust for summer fruit 
The tree in May-day blooming ? ' 

" Alone the hangbird overhead, 
His hair-swung cradle sti-aining, 
355 Looked down to see love's miracle, — 
The giving that is gaining. 

•' And so the farmer found a wife, 

His mother found a daughter: 
There looks no happier home than hers 
360 On pleasant Bearcamp Water. 

" Flowers spring to blossom where she walks 

The careful ways of duty; 
Our hard, stiff lines of life with her 

Are flowing curves of beauty. 



230 WHITTIER. 

365 " Our homes are cheerier for her sake, 
Our door-yards brighter blooming, 
And all about the social air 
Is sweeter for her coming. 

" Unspoken homilies of peace 
370 Her daily life is pi-eaching; 
The still refreshment of the dew 
Is her unconscious teaching. 

" And never tenderer hand than hers 
Unkuits the brow of ailing; 
375 Her garments to the sick man's ear 
Have music in their trailing. 

*' And when, in pleasant harvest moons, 

" The youthful huskers gather. 
Or sleigh-drives on the mountain ways 
380 Defy the winter weather, — 

" In sugar-camps, when south and warm 
The winds of March are blowing. 

And sweetly from its thawing veins 
The maple's blood is flowing, — 

385 " In summer, where some lilied pond 
Its virgin zone is bearing, 
Or where the ruddy autumn fire 
Lights up the apple-paring, — 

" The coarseness of a ruder time 
390 Her finer mirth displaces, 

A subtler sense of pleasure fills 
Each rustic sport she graces. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 231 

" Her presence lends its warmth and health 
To all who come before it. 
395 If woman lost us Eden, such 
As she alone restore it. 

" For larger life and wiser aims 

The farmer is her debtor ; 
Who holds to his another's heart 
400 Must needs be worse or better. 

*' Through her his civic service shows 

A purer-toned ambition ; 
No double consciousness divides 

The man and politician. 

405 " In party's doubtful ways he trusts 
Her instincts to determine; 
At the loud polls, the thought of her 
Recalls Christ's Mountain Sermon. 

" He owns her logic of the heart, 
410 And wisdom of unreason. 

Supplying, while he doubts and weighs, 
The needed word in season. 

" He sees with pride her richer thought. 
Her fancy's freer ranges; 
415 And love thus deepened to respect 
Is proof against all changes. 

" And if she walks at ease in ways 

His feet are slow to travel, 
And if she reads with cultured eyes 
420 What his may scarce unravel, 



232 WHITTIER. 

" Still clearer, for lier keener sight 

Of beauty and of wonder, 
He learns the meaning of the hills 

He dwelt from childhood under. 

425 " And higher, warmed with summer lights, 
Or winter-crowned and hoary, 
The ridged horizon Ufts for him 
Its inner veils of glory. 

" He has his own free, bookless lore, 
430 The lessons nature taught him. 

The wisdom which the woods and hills 
And toiling men have brought him: 

" The steady force of will whereby 
Her flexile grace seems sweeter ; 
435 The sturdy counterpoise which makes 
Her woman's Ufe completer: 

" A latent fire of soul which lacks 

No breath of love to fan it ; 
And wit, that, like his native brooks, 
440 Plays over solid granite. 

" How dwarfed against his manliness 
She sees the poor pretension, 

The wants, the aims, the follies, born 
Of fashion and convention I 

445 " How life behind its accidents 

Stands strong and self-sustaining. 
The human fact transcending all 
The losing and the gaining. 



AMONG THE HILLS. 233 

" And so, in grateful interchange 
450 Of teacher and of hearer, 

Their lives their true distinctness keep 
While daily drawing nearer. 

" And if the husband or the wife 
In home's strong light discovers 
455 Such slight defaults as failed to meet 
The blinded eyes of lovers, 

" Why need we care to ask ? — who dreams 

Without their thorns of roses, 

Or wonders that the truest steel 

460 The readiest spark discloses? 

" For still in mutual sufferance lies 

The secret of true living : 
Love scarce is love that never knows 

The sweetness of forgiving. 

465 " We send the Squire to General Court, 
He takes his young wife thither; 
No prouder man election day 

Rides through the sweet June weather. 

" He sees with eyes of manly trust 
470 All hearts to her inclining; 

Not less for him his household light 
That others share its shining," 

Thus, while my hostess spake, there grew 
Before me, warmer tinted 
475 And outlined with a tenderer grace, 
The picture that she hinted. 



234 WHITTIER. 

The sunset smouldered as we drove 

Beneath the deep hill-shadows. 
Below us wreaths of white fog walked 
480 Like ghosts the haunted meadows. 

Sounding the summer night, the stars 
Dropped down their golden plummets; 

The pale arc of the Northern lights 
Rose o'er the mountain summits, — 

485 Until, at last, beneath its bridge, 

We heard the Bearcamp flowing, 
And saw across the mapled lawn 

The welcome home-lights glowing; — 

And, musing on the tale I heard, 
490 'Twere well, thought I, if often 
To rugged farm-life came the gift 
To harmonize and soften; — 

If more and more we found the troth 
Of fact and fancy plighted, 
495 And culture's charm and labor's strength 
In rural homes united, — 

The simple life, the homely hearth, 

With beauty's sphere surrounding, 
And blessing toil where toil abounds 
500 With graces more abounding. 



III. 

MABEL MARTIN. 

[This poem was published in 1875, but it had 
already appeared in an earlier version in 1860 under 
the title of The Witch's Daughter, in Home Ballads 
and other Poems. Mabel Martin is in the same 
measure as The Witch's Daughter, and many of 
the verses are the same, but the poet has taken the 
first di'aft as a sketch, filled it out, adding verses 
here and there, altering lines and making an intro- 
duction, so that the new version is a third longer 
than the old. The reader will find it interesting to 
compare the two poems. The scene is laid on the 
Merrimack, as Deer Island and Hawkswood near 
Newburyport intimate. A fruitful comparison 
might be drawn between the treatment of such sub- 
jects by Whittier and by Hawthorne.] 

PART I. 

THE KIVER VALLEY. 

Across the level tableland, 
A grassy, rarely trodden way, 
With thinnest skirt of birchen spray 

And stunted growth of cedar, leads 
5 To where you see the dull plain fall 

Sheer off, steep- slanted, ploughed by all 



236 WHITTIER. 

The seasons' rainfalls. On its brink 
The over-leaning harebells swing; 
With roots half bare the pine-trees cling ; 

10 And, through the shadow looking west, 
You see the wavering river flow 
Along a vale, that far below 

Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills. 
And glimmering water-line between, 
15 Broad fields of corn and meadows green, 

And fruit-bent orchards grouped around 
The low brown roofs and painted eaves, ' 
And chimney-tops half hid in leaves. 

No warmer valley hides behind 
20 Yon wind-scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak; 
No fairer river comes to seek 

The wave-sung welcome of the sea, 
Or mark the northmost border line 
Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. 

25 Here, ground-fast in their native fields, 
Untempted by the city's gain, 
The quiet farmer folk remain 

Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, 
And keep their fathers' gentle ways 
30 And simple speech of Bible days; 

In whose neat homesteads woman holds 
With modest ease her equal place. 
And wears upon her tranquil face 



MABEL MARTIN. 237 

The look of one who, merging not 
35 Her self-hood in another's -will, 
Is love's and duty's handmaid still. 

Pass with me down the path that winds 
Through birches to the open land, 
Where, close upon the river strand 

40 You mark a cellar, vine-o'errun, 

Above whose wall of loosened stones 
The sumach lifts its reddening cones, 

And the black nightshade's berries shine, 
And broad, unsightly burdocks fold 
45 The household ruin, century-old. 

Here, in the dim colonial time 

Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, 
A woman lived, tradition saith. 

Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, 
50 And witched and plagued the country-side, 
Till at the hangman's hand she died. 

Sit with me while the westering day 
Falls slantwise down the quiet vale. 
And, haply, ere yon loitering sail, 

55 That round the upper headland falls 
Below Deer Island's pines, or sees 
Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees 

Rise black against the sinking sun. 
My idyl of its days of old, 
60 The valley's legend shall be told. 



238 WUITTIER. 



PART II. 

THE HUSKING. 

It was the pleasant harvest-time, 
When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
And garrets bend beneath their load, 

And the old swallow-haunted barns, — 
65 Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 

Through which the rooted sunlight streams, 

And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
The red plumes of the roosted cocks. 
And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, — 

70 Are filled with summer's ripened stores, 
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
From their low scaffolds to tlieir eaves. 

On Esek Harden's oaken floor, 

With many an autumn threshing worn, 
75 Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 

And thither came young men and maids, 
Beneath a moon that, large and low, 
Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 

They took their places; some by chance, 
80 And others by a merry voice 

Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 

How pleasantly the rising moon, 
Between the shadow of the mows. 
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! 



MABEL MARTIN. 239 

85 On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, 
On girlhood with its solid curves 
Of healthful strength and painless nerves! 

And jests went round, and laughs that made 
The house-dog answer with his howl, 
90 And kept astir the barn-yard fowl; 

And quaint old songs their fathers sung 
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
Ere Norman William trod their shores; 

And tales, whose merry license shook 
95 The fat sides of the Saxon thane, 
Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — 

Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, 
The charms and riddles that beguiled 
On Oxus' banks the young world's child, — 

100 That primal picture-speech wherein 

Have youth and maid the story told, 
So new in each, so dateless old. 

Recalling pastoral Ruth in her 

"Who waited, blushing and demure, 
105 The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. 

99. The Oxus, which was the great river of Upper Asia, 
flowed past what has been regarded as tlie birthplace of Western 
people, who emigrated from that centre. Some of the riddles 
and plays which we have are of great antiquity and ma}' have 
been handed down from the time when our ancestors were still 
Asiatics. 



240 WHITTIER. 

PART III. 

THE witch's daughter. 

But still the sweetest voice was mute 
That river-valley ever heard 
From lips of maid or throat of bird ; 

For Mabel Martin sat apart, 
no And let the hay-mow's shadow fall 
Upon the loveliest face of all. 

She sat apart, as one foi'bid. 

Who knew that none would condescend 
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 

115 The seasons scarce had gone their round, 
Since curious thousands thronged to see 
Her mother at the gallows-tree; 

And mocked the prison-palsied limbs 

That faltered on the fatal stairs, 

120 And wan lip trembling with its prayers! 

'Few questioned of the sorrowing child. 
Or, when they saw the mother die, 
Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 

They went up to their homes that day, 
125 As men and Christians justified: 

God willed it, and the wretch had died ! 

117. In Upliam's History of Snlem Witchcraft will be found 
an acooiint of the trial and execution of Susanna Martin for 
witchcraft. 



MABEL MARTIN. 241 

Dear God and Father of us all, 
Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
Forgive the blindness that denies ! 

130 Forgive thy creature when he takes, 
For the all-perfect love thou art, 
Some grim creation of his heart. 

Cast down our idols, overturn 
Our bloody altars; let us see 
135 Thyself in Thy humanity ! 

Young Mabel from her mother's grave 
Crept to her desolate hearth- stone, 
And wrestled with her fate alone; 

With love, and anger, and despair, 
140 The phantoms of disordered sense, 
The awful doubts of Providence ! 

Oh, dreary broke the winter days. 
And dreary fell the winter nights 
When, one by one, the neighboring lights 

145 Went out, and human sounds grew still, 
And all the phantom-peopled dark 
Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. 

And summer days were sad and long, 
And sad the uncompanioned eves, 
150 And sadder sunset- tinted leaves. 

And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; 
She scarcely felt the soft cai'ess, 
The beauty died of loneliness I 
16 



242 WHITTIER. 

The school-boys jeered her as they passed, 

155 And, when she sought the house of prayer, - 

Her mother's curse pursued her there. 

And still o'er many a neighboring door 
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm. 
To guard against her mother's harm: 

160 That mother, poor and sick and lame, 
Who daily, by the old arm-chair, 
Folded her withered hands in prayer; — 

Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, 
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
165 When her dim eyes could read no more I 

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 

And still her weary wheel went round 
170 Day after day, with no relief: 

Small leisure have the poor for grief. 



PART IV. 
THE CHAMPION. 

So in the shadow Mabel sits; 

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, 
Her smile is sadder than her tears. 

175 But cruel eyes have found her out. 
And cruel lips repeat her name, 
And taunt her with her mother's shame. 



MABEL MARTIN. 243 

She answered not with railing words, 
But drew her apron o'er her face, 
l8o And, sobbing, glided from the place. 

And only pausing at the door. 

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
Of one who, in her better days. 

Had been her warm and steady friend, 
185 Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
Even Esek Harden half afraid. 

He felt that mute appeal of tears, 
And, starting, with an angry frown. 
Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 

190 " Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
" This passes harmless mirth or jest; 
I brook no insult to my guest. 

" She is indeed her mother's child ; 
But God's sweet pity ministers 
195 Unto no whiter soul than hers. 

" Let Goody Martin rest in peace; 
I never knew her harm a fly, 
And witch or not, God knows — not I. 

" I know who swore her life away ; 
200 And as God lives, I 'd not condemn 
An Indian dog on word of them." 

The broadest lands in all the town, 
The skill to guide, the power to awe, 
Were Harden's ; and his word was law. 



244 WHITTIER. 

205 None dared withstand him to his face, 
But one sly maiden spake aside: 
" The Uttle witch is evil-eyed! 

" Her mother only killed a cow, 
Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; 
210 But she, forsooth, must charm a man! 



PART V. 
IN THE SHADOW. 

Poor Mabel, homeward turning, passed 
The nameless terrors of the wood. 
And saw, as if a ghost pursued, 

Her shadow gliding in the moon; 
215 The soft breath of the west-wind gave 
A chill as from her mother's grave. 

How dreary seemed the silent house! 
Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare 
Its windows had a dead man's stare ! 

220 And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, 
The tremulous shadow of a birch 
Reached out and touched the door's low porch, 

As if to lift its latch: hard by, 
A sudden warning call she heard, 
225 The night-cry of a brooding bird. 

She leaned against the door; her face. 
So fair, so young, so full of pain. 
White in the moonlight's silver rain. 



MABEL MARTIN. 245 

The river, on its pebbled rim, 
230 Made music such as childhood knew; 

The door-yard tree was whispered through 

By voices such as childhood's ear 
Had heard in moonlights long ago; 
And through the willow-boughs below 

235 She saw the rippled waters shine; 

Beyond, in waves of shade and light, 
The hills rolled oS into the night. 

She saw and heard, but over all 
A sense of some transforming spell, 
240 The shadow of her sick heart fell. 

And still across the wooded space 
The harvest lights of Harden shone, 
And song and jest and laugh went on. 

And he, so gentle, true, and strong, 
245 Of men the bravest and the best. 

Had he, too, scorned her with the rest? 

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
And, in her old and simple way. 
To teach her bitter heart to pray. 

250 Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith 
Grew to a low, despairing cry 
Of utter misery : " Let me die! 

" Oh! take me from the scornful eyes, 

And hide me where the cruel speech 

255 And mocking finger may not reach! 



246 WHITTIER. 

" I dare not breathe my mother's name: 
A daughter's right I dare not crave 
To weep above her unblest grave ! 

" Let me not live until my heart, 
260 With few to pity, and with none 
To love me, hardens into stone. 

" O God ! have mercy on thy child, 
Whose faith in thee grows weak and small, 
And take me ere I lose it all! " 

265 A shadow on the moonlight fell, 

And murmuring wind and wave became 
A voice whose burden was her name. 



PART IV. 
THE BETROTHAL. 

Had then God heard her ? Had He sent 
His angel down ? In flesh and blood, 
270 Before her Esek Harden stood! 

He laid his hand upon her arm: 

" Dear Mabel, this no more shall be; 
Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. 

" You know rough Esek Harden well; 
275 And if he seems no suitor gay, 

And if his hair is touched with gray, 

" The maiden grown shall never find 

His heart less warm than when she smiled, 
Upon his knees, a little child 1 " 



MABEL MARTIN. 247 

280 Her tears of grief were tears of joy, 
As, folded in his strong embrace, 
She looked in Esek Harden's face. 

*' Oh, truest friend of all! " she said, 

" God bless you for your kindly thought, 
285 And make me worthy of my lot! " 

He led her forth, and, blent in one, 
Beside their happy pathway ran 
The shadows of the maid and man. 

He led her through his dewy fields, 
290 To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 

And through the doors the huskers showed. 

" Good friends and neighbors! " Esek said, 
" I 'm weary of this lonely life; 
In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 

295 " She greets you kindly, one and all ; 
The past is past, and all oflfence 
Falls harmless from her innocence. 

" Henceforth she stands no more alone; 
You know what Esek Harden is; — 
300 He brooks no wrong to him or his. 

" Now let the merriest tales be told. 
And let the sweetest songs be sung 
That ever made the old heart young I 

" For now the lost has found a home; 
305 And a lone hearth shall brighter burn. 
As all the household joys return ! " 



248 WHITTIER. 

Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon, 
Between the shadow of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs! 

310 On Mabel's curls of golden hair, 

On Esek's shaggy strength it fell; 

And the wind whispered, " It is well I " 



IV. 

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 

[" This ballad was written," Mr. Whittier says, 
" on the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. Cob- 
bler Keezar was a noted character among the first 
settlers in the valley of the Merrimack."] 



The beaver cut his timber 
With patient teeth that day, 

The minks were fish-wards, and the crows 
Surveyors of highway, — 

5 When Keezar sat on the hillside 
Upon his cobbler's form. 
With a pan of coals on either hand 
To keep his waxed-ends warm. 

And there, in the golden weather, 
10 He stitched and hammered and sung; 
In the brook he moistened his leather, 
In the pewter mug his tongue. 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 249 

Well knew the tough old Teuton 
Who brewed the stoutest ale, 
15 And he paid the goodwife's reckoning 
In the coin of song and tale. 

The songs they still are singing 

Who dress the hills of vine, 
The tales that haunt the Brocken 
20 And whisper down the Rhine. 

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 

The swift stream wound away. 
Through birches and scarlit maples 

Flashing in foam and spray, — 

25 Down on the sharp-horned ledges 
Plunging in steep cascade. 
Tossing its white-maned waters 
Against the hemlock's shade. 

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
30 East and west and north and south; 
Only the village of fishers 
Down at the river's mouth; 

Only here and there a clearing, 
With its farm-house rude and new, 
35 And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
Where the scanty harvest grew. 

No shout of home-bound reapers, 
No vintage-song he heard, 

19. The Brocken is the highest summit of the Hartz range in 
Germany, and a great body of superstitious has gathered about 
the whole range. May-day night, called Walpurgis Night, is 
held to be the time of a great witch festival on the Brocken. 



250 WHITTIER. 

And on the green no dancing feet 
40 The merry vioUn stirred. 

" Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, 
" When nature herself is glad, 

And the painted woods are laughing 
At the faces so sour and sad ? " 

45 Small heed had the careless cobbler 
What sorrow of heart was theirs 
Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
And planted a state with prayers, — 

Hunting of witches and warlocks, 
50 Smiting the heathen horde, — • 
One hand on the mason's trowel. 
And one on the soldier's sword! 

But give him his ale and cider, 
Give him his pipe and song, 
55 Little he cared for Church or State, 
Or the balance of right and wrong. 

" 'Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — 

" And for rest a snuffle of psalms I " 
He smote on his leathern apron 
60 With his brown and waxen palms. 

" Oh for the purple harvests 

Of the days when I was young! 

For the merry grape-stained maidens, 
And the pleasant songs they sung ! 

65 " Oh for the breath of vineyards, 
Of apples and nuts and wine! 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 251 

For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
Down the grand old river Rhine 1 " 

A tear in his blue eye glistened, 
70 And dropped on his beard so gray. 
" Old, old am I," said Keezar, 
" And the Rhine flows far away! " 

But a cunning man was the cobbler; 
He could call the birds from the trees, 
T^ Charm the black snake out of the ledges, 
And bring back the swarming bees. 

All the virtues of herbs and metals, 

All the lore of the woods, he knew, 
And the arts of the Old AVorld mingled 
80 With the marvels of the New. 

Well he knew the tricks of magic, 

And the lapstone on his knee 
Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, 

Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 

85 For the mighty master Agrippa 

Wrought it with spell and rhyme 
From a fragment of mystic moonstone 
In the tower of Nettesheim. 

To a cobbler Minnesinger 
90 The marvellous stone gave he, — 

84. Dr. John Dee was a man of vast knowledge, who had an 
extensive museum, library, and apparatus; he claimed to be an 
astrologer, and had acquired the reputation ofhaving dealings 
with evil spirits, and a mob was raised which destroyed the 
greater part of his possessions. He professed to raise the dead 
and had a magic crystal. He died a pauper in 1608. 

85. Henry Cornelius Agrippa {148G-1535) was an alchemist. 



252 WHITTIER. 

And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, 
Who brought it over the sea. 

He held up that niyttic hipstone, 
He held it up like a lens, 
95 And he counted the long years coming 
By twenties and by tens. 

" One hundred years," quoth Keezar, 

" And fifty have I told: 
Now open the new before me, 
100 And shut me out the old! " 

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 

Rolled from the magic stone. 
And a marvellous picture mingled 

The unknown and the known. 

105 Still ran the stream to the river, 
And river and ocean joined; 
And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, 
And cold north hills behind. 

But the mighty forest was broken 
1 10 By many a steepled town, 

By many a white- walled farm-house, 
And many a garner brown. 

Turning a score of mill-wheels. 
The stream no more ran free; 
115 White sails on the winding river, 
White sails on the far-off sea. 

Below in the noisy village 
The flags were floating gay. 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 253 

And shone on a thousand faces 
120 The light of a holiday. 

Swiftly the rival ploughmen 

Turned the brown earth from their shares; 
Here were the farmer's treasures, 

There were the craftsman's wares. 

125 Golden the goodwife's butter, 
Ruby her currant-wine; 
Grand were the strutting turkeys, 
Fat were the beeves and swine. 

Yellow and red were the apples, 
130 And the ripe pears russet-brown, 
And the peaches had stolen blushes 
From the girls who shook them down. 

And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 
That shame the toil of art, 
135 Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 
Of the garden's tropic heart. 

" What is it I see? " said Keezar: 

" Am I here, or am I there? 
Is it a fete at Bingen ? 
140 Do I look on Frankfort fair? 

" But where are the clowns and puppets, 

And imps with horns and tail? 
And where are the Rhenish flagons? 

And where is the foaming ale? 

145 " Strange things, I know, will happen, — 
Strange things the Lord permits ; 



254 WHITTIER. 

But that droughty folk should be jolly 
Puzzles my poor old wits. 

" Here are smiling manly faces, 
150 And the maiden's step is gay ; 

Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, 
Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 

" Here 's pleasure without regretting, 
And good without abuse, 
155 The holiday and the bridal 
Of beauty and of use. 

" Here 's a priest and there is a Quaker, — 

Do the cat and dog agree ? 
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood ? 
160 Have they cut down the gallows-tree? 

" Would the old folk know their children ? 

Would they own the graceless town, 
With never a ranter to worry 

And never a witch to drown? " 

165 Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
Laughed like a school-boy gay; 
Tossing his arms above him, 
The lapstone rolled away. 

It rolled down the rugged hillside, 
170 It spun like a wheel bewitched, 

It plunged through the leaning willows. 
And into the river pitched. 

There, in the deep, dark water. 
The magic stone lies still. 



BARCLAY OF URY. 355 

175 Under the leaning willows 
In the shadow of the hill. 

But oft the idle fisher 

Sits on the shadowy bank, 
And his dreams make marvellous pictures 
180 Where the wizard's lapstone sank. 

And still, in the summer twilights, 

When the river seems to run 
Out from the inner glory. 

Warm with the melted sun, 

185 The weary mill-girl lingers 

Beside the charmed stream. 
And the sky and the golden water 
Shape and color her dream. 

Fair wave the sunset gardens, 
190 The rosy signals fly; 

Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 
And love goes sailing by ! 



V. 

BARCLAY OF URY. 

Among the earliest converts to the doctrines 
of Friends in Scotland was Barclay of Ury, an old 
and distinguished soldier, who had fought under 
Gustavus Adolphus in Germany. As a Quaker, 
he became the object of persecution and abuse at 



256 WHITTIER. 

the hands of the magistrates and the populace. 
None bore the indignities of the mob with greater 
patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud 
gentleman and soldier. One of his friends, on an 
occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that he 
should be treated so harshly in his old age who 
had been so honored before. " I find more satis- 
faction," said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being 
thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, 
a few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, 
as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on 
the road and conduct me to public entertainment 
in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain 
my favor." — Whittier. 



Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 

Rode the Laird of Ury; 
Close behind him, close beside, 
5 Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl. 
Jeered at him the serving-girl. 

Prompt to please her master; 
10 And the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate, 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 
15 Came he slowly riding; 



BARCLAY OF URY. 257 

And, to all he saw and heard 
Answering not with bitter word, 
Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
20 Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 
Loose and free and froward; 
Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down! 
Push him! prick him! through the town 
Drive the Quaker coward! " 

25 But from out the thickening crowd 

Cried a sudden voice and loud : 
"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!" 

And the old man at his side 

Saw a comrade, battle tried, 
30 Scarred and sunburned darkly; 

Who with ready weapon bare. 
Fronting to the troopers there. 

Cried aloud : " God save us. 
Call ye coward him who stood 
35 Ankle deep in LUtzen's blood. 

With the brave Gustavus? " 

" Nay, I do not need thy sword. 
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord; 

" Put it up, I pray thee: 
40 Passive to his holy will. 
Trust I in my Master still, 

Even though he slay me. 

35. It was at Liitzen, near Leipzig, that Gustavus Adolphus 
fell in 1632. He was the hero of Schiller's Wallenstein, which 
Carlyle calls " the greatest tragedy of the eighteenth cent- 
ury." 

17 



258 WHITTIER. 

" Pledges of thy love and faith, 
Proved on many a field of death, 
45 Not by me are needed." 

Marvelled much that henchman bold. 
That his laird, so stout of old. 
Now so meekly pleaded. 

" Woe 's the day I " he sadly said, 
50 With a slowly shaking head. 

And a look of pity; 
" Ury's honest lord reviled. 
Mock of knave and sport of child. 

In his own good city ! 

55 " Speak the word, and, master mine, 

As we charged on Tilly's line, 
And his Walloon lancers, 

Smiting through their midst we '11 teach 

Civil look and decent speech 
60 To these boyish prancers ! " 

" Marvel not, mine ancient friend. 
Like beginning, like the end: " 

Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
" Ls the sinful servant more 
65 Than his gracious Lord who bore 

Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 

" Give me joy that in His name 
I can bear, with patient frame, 
All these vain ones oiler; 

56. Count de Tilly was a fierce soldier under Wallenstein, 
who in the Thirty Years' War laid siege to Magdeburg, and 
after two years took it and displayed great barbaritj- toward 
the inliabitants. The phrase, "like old Tillj^," is still heard 
sometimes in New England of any piece of special ferocitj'. 



BARCLAY OF URY. 259 

70 While for them He suffereth long, 
Shall I answer wrong with wrong, 
Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

" Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 
75 With few friends to greet me. 

Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me. 

" When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, 
80 Blessed me as I passed her door; 

And the snooded daughter. 
Through her casement glancing down, 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

85 " Hard to feel the stranger's scoff. 
Hard the old friend's falling off. 

Hard to learn forgiving; 
But the Lord His own rewards. 
And His love with theirs accords, 

90 Warm and fresh and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking ; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
95 In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking! " 

So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 



260 WHITTIER. 

loo Where, through iron grates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 
Preach of Christ arisen! 

Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 
105 Of thy day of trial ; 

Every age on him, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways, 
Pours its sevenfold vial. 

Happy he whose inward ear 
110 Angel comfortings can hear, 

O'er the rabble's laughter; 
And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

115 Knowing this, that never yet 
Share of Truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow; 
After hands shall sow the seed, 
After hands from hill and mead 

120 Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
125 And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow! 



THE TWO RABBIS. 261 

VI. 
THE TWO RABBIS. 

The Rabbi Nathan, twoscoi-e yeai's and ten, 
Walked blameless through the evil world, and 

then. 
Just as the almond blossomed in his hair, 
Met a temptation all too strong to bear, 
5 And miserably sinned. So, adding not 

Falsehood to guilt, he left his seat, and taught 
No more among the elders, but went out 
From the great congregation girt about 
With sackcloth, and with ashes on his head, 

10 Making his gray locks grayer. Long he prayed, 
Smiting his breast; then, as the Book he laid 
Open before him for the Bath- Col's choice. 
Pausing to hear that Daughter of a Voice, 
Behold the royal preacher's words: " A friend 

15 Loveth at all times, yea, unto the end ; 
And for the evil day thy brother lives." 
Marvelling, he said : " It is the Lord who gives 
Counsel in need. At Ecbatana dwells 
Rabbi Ben Isaac, who all men excels 

20 In righteousness and wisdom, as the trees 
Of Lebanon the small weeds that the bees 
Bow with their weight. I will arise, and lay 
My sins before him." 

12. Daughter of the Voice is the meaning of Bath-Col, which 
was a sort of divination practised by the Jews when the gift of 
prophecy had died out. Something of the same sort of divina- 
tion has been used amongst Christians when the Bible has been 
opened at hap-hazard and some answer expected to a question 
in the first passage that meets the eye. 



262 WHITTIER. 

And he went his way 
Barefooted, fasting long, with many prayers ; 

25 But even as one who, followed unawares, 
Suddenly in the darkness feels a hand 
Thrill with its touch his own, and his cheek fanned 
By odors subtly sweet, and whispers near 
Of words he loathes, yet cannot choose but hear, 

30 So, while the Rabbi journeyed, chanting low 
The wail of David's penitential woe, 
Before him still the old temptation came, 
And mocked him with the motion and the shame 
Of such desires that, shuddering, he abhorred 

35 Himself; and, crying mightily to the Lord 
To free his soul and cast the demon out. 
Smote with his staff the blankness round about. 

At length, in the low light of a spent day, 
The towers of Ecbatana far away 

40 Rose on the desert's rim; and Nathan, faint 
And footsore, pausing where for some dead saint 
The faith of Islam reared a domed tomb, 
Saw some one kneeling in the shadow, whom 
He greeted kindly: " May the Holy One 

45 Answer thy prayers, O stranger! " Whereupon 
The shape stood up with a loud cry, and then, 
Clasped in each other's arms, the two gray men 
Wept, praising Him whose gracious providence 
Made their paths one. But straightway, as the 
sense 

50 Of his transgression smote him, Nathan tore 
Himself away: " O friend beloved, no more 
Worthy am I to touch thee, for I came. 
Foul from my sins, to tell thee all my shame. 
Haply thy prayers, since nought availeth mine, 



THE TWO RABBIS. 263 

55 May purge my soul, and make it white like thine. 
Pity me, O Ben Isaac, I have sinned! " 

Awestruck Ben Isaac stood. The desert wind 
Blew his long mantle backward, laying bare 
The mournful secret of his shirt of hair. 

60 " I too, O friend, if not in act," he said, 

"In thought have verily sinned. Hast thou not 

read, 
' Better the eye should see than that desire 
Should wander ' ? Burning with a hidden fire 
That tears and prayers quench not, I come to thee 

65 For pity and for help, as thou to me. 

Pray for me, O my friend! " But Nathan cried, 
" Pray thou for me, Ben Isaac! " 

Side by side 
In the low sunshine by the turban stone 
They knelt; each made his brother's woe his own, 

70 Forgetting, in the agony and stress 

Of pitying love, his claim of selfishness; 
Peace, for his friend besought, his own became; 
His prayers were answered in another's name ; 
And, when at last they rose up to embrace, 

75 Each saw God's pardon in his brother's face! 

Long after, when his headstone gathered moss, 
Traced on the targum-marge of Onkelos 
In Rabbi Nathan's hand these words we read : 
" Hope not the cure of sin till Self is dead ; 

59. Which he wore as a mortification of the flesh. 

77. The targiim was a paraphrase of some portion of Script- 
ure in the Chaldee language. It was on the margin of the 
most ancient targiun — that of Oniielos — that Rabbi Nathan 
wrote his words. 



264 WHITTIER. 

80 Forget it in love's service, and the debt 
Thou canst not pay the angels shall forget ; 
Heaven's gate is shut to him who comes alone ; 
Save thou a soul, and it shall save thy oion ! " 



vn. 

THE GIFT OF TRITEMIUS. 

Tritemius of Herbipolis, one day, 
While kneeling at the altar's foot to pray, 
Alone with God, as was his pious choice. 
Heard from without a miserable voice, 
5 A sound which seemed of all sad things to tell, 
As of a lost soul crying out of hell. 

Thereat the Abbot paused : the chain whereby 
His thoughts went upward broken by that cry ; 
And, looking from the casement, saw below 
10 A wretched woman, with gray hair a-flow, 
And withered hands held up to him, who cried 
For alms as one who might not be denied. 

She cried, " For the dear love of Him who gave 
His life for ours, my child from bondage save, — 

15 My beautiful, brave first-born, chained with slaves 
In the Moor's galley, where the sun-smit waves 
Lap the white walls of Tunis 1 " — " What I can 
I give," Tritemius said: " my prayers." — "O 

man 
Of God! " she cried, for grief had made her bold, 

20 " Mock me not thus; I ask not prayers, but gold. 



THE GIFT OF TRITE MI US. 265 

Words will not serve me, alms alone suffice; 
Even while I speak perchance my first-born dies." 

" Woman! " Tritemius answered, " from our door 
None go unfed; hence are we always poor: 
25 A single soldo is our only store. 

Thou hast our prayers ; — what can we give thee 
more? " 

" Give me," she said, " the silver candlesticks 
On either side of the great crucifix. 
God well may spare them on His errands sped, 
30 Or He can give you golden ones instead." 

Then spake Tritemius, " Even as thy word. 
Woman, so be it I (Our most gracious Lord, 
Who loveth mercy more than sacrifice, 
Pai'don me if a human soul I prize 
35 Above the gifts upon His altar piled!) 

Take what thou askest, and redeem thy child." 

But his hand trembled as the holy alms 
He placed within the beggar's eager palms; 
And as she vanished down the linden shade, 
40 He bowed his head and for forgiveness prayed. 

So the day passed, and when the twilight came 
He woke to find the chapel all aflame, 
And, dumb with grateful wonder, to behold 
Upon the altar candlesticks of gold! 



266 WUITTIER. 

VIII. 

THE BROTHER OF MERCY. 

PiEKO LuCA, known of all tlie town 
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall 
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, 
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down 
5 His last sad burden, and beside his mat 
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat. 

Unseen, in squai-e and blossoming garden drifted, 
Soft sunset lights through green Val d' Arno sifted; 
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted 

lo Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, 
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life: 
But when at last came upward from the street 
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, 
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, 

15 Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. 

And the monk said, " 'T is but the Brotherhood 
Of Mercy going oil some errand good : 

6. The monaster}' of La Certosa is about four miles distant 
from Florence, the scene of this little poem. 

8. The Val d'Arno is the vallej' of the river Arno, upon which 
Florence lies. 

16. The Brethren of the Misericordia, an association which 
had its origin in the thirteenth century, is composed mainly of 
the wealthy and prosperous, whose duty it is to nurse tlie sick, 
to aid those who have been injured by accident, and to secure 
decent burial to the poor and friendless. They are summoned 
by the sound of a bell, and, when it is heard, the member slips 
away from ball-room, or dinner party, or wherever he may be, 
puts on the black robe and hood, entirely concealing his face, 
glass openings being provided for the eyes, and performs the 



THE BROTHER OF MERCY. 267 

Their black masks by the palace- wall I see." 
Piero answered faintly, " Woe is me ! 

20 This day for the first time in forty years 
In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, 
Calling me with my brethren of the mask, 
Beggar and prince alike, to some new task 
Of love or pity, — haply from the street 

25 To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet 
Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, 
To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, 
Down the long twilight of the corridors, 
Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. 

30 I loved the work: it was its own reward. 
I never counted on it to offset 
My sins, which are many, or make less my debt 
To the free grace and mercy of our Lord ; 
But somehow, father, it has come to be 

35 In these long years so much a part of me, 
I should not know myself, if lacking it. 
But with the work the worker too would die, 
And in my place some other self would sit 
Joyful or sad, — what matters, if not I? 

40 And now all 's over. Woe is me!" 

"My son," 
The monk said soothingly, ' ' thy work is done ; 
And no more as a servant, but the guest 
Of God thou enterest thy eternal rest. 
No toil, no tears, no sorrow for the lost 

45 Shall mar thy perfect bliss. Thou shalt sit down 
Clad in white robes, and wear a golden crown 
Forever and forever." — Piero tossed 
On his sick-pillow : " Miserable me I 
I am too poor for such grand company ; 

dutj' assigned to him. This perfect concealment is to aid ia 
secui'ing the perfect equality enjoined by the Order. 



268 WHITTIER. 

50 The crown would be too heavy for this gray 
Old head ; and God forgive me if I say 
It would be hard to sit there night and day, 
Like an image in the Tribune, doing naught 
With these hard hands, that all my life have 
wrought, 

55 Not for bread only, but for pity's sake. 

I 'm dull at prayers: I could not keep awake. 
Counting my beads. Mine 's but a crazy head, 
Scarce worth the saving, if all else be dead. 
And if one goes to heaven without a heart, 

60 God knows he leaves behind his better part. 
I love ray fellow-men : the worst I know 
I would do good to. Will death change me so 
That I shall sit among the lazy saints, 
Turning a deaf ear to the soi'e complaints 

65 Of souls that suffer? Why, I never yet 
Left a poor dog in the strada hard beset. 
Or ass o'erladen ! Must I rate man less 
Than dog or ass, in holy selfishness ? 
Methinks (Lord, pardon, if the thought be sin I) 

70 The world of pain were better, if therein 

One's heart might still be human, and desires 
Of natural pity drop upon its fires 
Some cooling tears." 

Thereat the pale monk crossed 
His brow, and, muttering, "Madman! thou art 
lost!" 

75 Took up his pyx and fled ; and, left alone. 

The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan 
That sank into a prayer, " Thy will be done ! " 

53. The Tribune is a hall in the Uffizi Palace in Florence, 
where are assembled some of the most world-renowned statues, 
including the Venus de Medici. 

66. Strada, street. 



PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 269 

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear, 
Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him, 

80 And of a voice like that of her who bore him, 
Tender and most compassionate: " Never fear I 
For heaven is love, as God himself is love; 
Thy work below shall be thy work above." 
And when he looked, lo ! in the stern monk's place 

85 He saw the shining of an angel's face 1 



The Traveller broke the pause. " I 've seen 
The Brothers down the long street steal. 

Black, silent, masked, the crowd between. 
And felt to doff my hat and kneel 
90 With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, 

For blessings on their pious care." 



IX. 
THE PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 

1697. 

[Samuel Sewall was one of a family notable 
in New England annals, and himself an eminent 
man in his generation. He was born in England 
in 1652, and was brought by his father to this 
country in 1661; but his father and grandfather 

86. The poem of The Brother of Mercy forms a part of The 
Tent on the Beach, in which Whittier pictures himself, the Trav- 
eller (Bayard Taylor), the Man of Books (J. T. Fields), camping 
upon Salisbury beach and telling stories. 



270 WHITTIER. 

were both pioneers in New England, and the fam- 
ily home was in Newbury, Massachusetts. Here 
Sewall spent his boyhood, but after graduating at 
Harvard he first essayed preaching, and then en- 
tered upon secular pursuits, becoming a member of 
the government and finally chief justice. He pre- 
sided at tlie sad trial of witches, and afterward 
made public confession of his error in a noble paper 
which was read in church before the congregation, 
and assented to by the judge, who stood alone as it 
was read and bowed at its conclusion. The paper 
is preserved in the first volume of the Diary of 
Samuel Sewall, published by the Massachusetts 
Historical Society. He was an upright man, of 
tender conscience and reverent mind. His charac- 
ter is well drawn by the poet in lines 13-20.] 



Up and down the village streets 
Strange are the forms my fancy meets, 
For the thoughts and things of to-day are hid, 
And through the veil of a closed hd 
5 The ancient worthies I see again: 
I hear the tap of the elder's cane, 
And his awful periwig I see, 
And the silver buckles of shoe and knee. 
Stately and slow, with thoughtful air, 
ID His black cap hiding his whitened hair, 
AValks the Judge of the great Assize, 
Samuel Sewall the good and wise. 
His face with lines of firmness wrought. 
He wears the look of a man unbought, 



PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 271 

15 Who swears to his hurt and changes not; 
Yet, touched and softened nevertheless, 
With the grace of Christian gentleness, 
The face that a child would climb to kiss! 
True and tender and brave and just, 

20 That man might honor and woman trust. 

Touching and sad, a tale is told, 
Like a penitent hymn of the Psalmist old, 
Of the fast which the good man lifelong kept 
With a haunting sorrow that never slept, 

25 As the circling year brought round the time 
Of an error that left the sting of ci'ime, 
When he sat on the bench of the witchcraft 

courts. 
With the laws of Moses and Hale's Reports, 
And spake, in the name of both, the word 

30 That gave the witch's neck to the cord, 
And piled the oaken planks that pressed 
The feeble life from the warlock's breast! 
All the day long, from dawn to dawn. 
His door was bolted, his curtain drawn; 

15. See Psalm xv. 4. 

23. It was the custom in Sewall's time for churches and indi- 
viduals to hold fasts whenever any public or private need sug- 
gested the fitness; and as state and church were verj' closely 
connected, the General Court sometimes ordered a fast; out of 
this custom sprang the annual fast in spring, now observed, 
but it is of comparatively recent date. Such a fast was ordered 
on the 14th of January, 1697, when Sewall made his special 
confession. He is said to have observed the day privately on 
each annual return thereafter. The custom still holds for 
churches to appoint their own fasts. 

28. Sir Matthew Hale, the great English judge, was a devout 
believer in tlie existence of witclicraft, and in 164.5 a great 
number of trials were held before him. The reports of those 
trials furnished precedents for Sewall and his court, not unas- 
sisted by the records in the Old Testament. 



272 WHITTIER. 

35 No foot on his silent threshold trod, 
No eye looked on him save that of God, 
As he baffled the ghosts of the dead with charms 
Of penitent tears, and prayers, and psalms. 
And, with precious proofs from the sacred word 

40 Of the boundless pity and love of the Lord, 
His faith confirmed and his trust renewed 
That the sin of his ignorance, sorely rued, 
Might be washed away in the mingled flood 
Of his human sorrow and Christ's dear blood I 

45 Green forever the memory be 
Of the Judge of the old Theocracy, 
Whom even his errors glorified. 
Like a far-seen, sunlit mountain-side 
By the cloudy shadows which o'er it glide! 

50 Honor and praise to the Puritan 

Who the halting step of his age outran, 
And, seeing the infinite worth of man 
In the priceless gift the Father gave, 
In the infinite love that stooped to save, 

55 Dared not brand his brother a slave! 

" Who doth such wrong," he was wont to say, 
In his own quaint, picture-loving way, 
" Flings up to Heaven a hand-grenade 
Which God shall cast down upon his head ! " 

60 Widely as heaven and hell, contrast 
That brave old jurist of the past 

55. In 1700 Sewall wrote a little tract of three pages oa The 
Sdliny of Joseph, which has been characterized as " an acute, 
compact, powerful statement of the case against American slav- 
ery, leaving, indeed, almost notiiing new to be said a century 
and a half afterward, when the sad thing came up for final ad- 
justment." Reprinted in Mass. Hist. Society's Proceedings ioi 
1803-1804, pp. 101-105. 



PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEW ALL. 273 

And the cunning trickster and knave of courts 
Who the holy features of Trutli distorts, — 
lluling as right the will of the strong, 

65 Poverty, crime, and weakness wrong; 

Wide-eared to power, to the wronged and weak 
Deaf as Egypt's gods of leek; 
Scoffing aside at party's nod 
Order of nature and law of God ; 

70 For whose dabhled ermine respect were waste, 
Reverence folly, and awe misplaced; 
Justice of whom 't were vain to seek 
As from Koordish robber or Syrian Sheik ! 
Oh, leave the wretch to his bribes and sins ; 

75 Let him rot in the web of lies he spins! 
To the saintly soul of the early daj'. 
To the Christian judge, let us turn and say: 
" Praise and thanks for an honest man! — 
Glory to God for the Puritan 1 " 

80 I see, far southward, this quiet day, 
The hills of Newbury rolling away, 
With the many tints of the season gay. 
Dreamily blending in autumn mist 
Crimson, and gold, and amethyst. 

85 Long and low, with dwarf trees crowned. 
Plum Island lies, like a whale aground, 
A stone's toss over the narrow sound. 
Inland, as far as the eye can go, 
The hills curve round like a bended bow ; 

90 A silver arrow from out them sprung, 
I see the shine of the Quasycung ; 

67. There was an early belief that the Egyptians worshipped 
gods of leek, but it has been shown that the belief rose from 
certain restrictions in the use of onions laid upon the priests, 
und from the offering of them as a part of sacritice. 
18 



274 • WHITTIER. 

And, round and round, over valley and hill, 
Old roads winding, as old roads will, 
Here to a ferry, and there to a mill ; 
95 And glimpses of chimneys and gabled eaves. 
Through green elm arches and maple leaves, — 
Old homesteads sacred to all that can 
Gladden or sadden the heart of man, — 
Over whose threshold of oak and stone 

loo Life and Death have come and gone! 

There pictured tiles in the fireplace show. 
Great beams sag from the ceiling low, 
The dresser glitters with polished wares, 
The long clock ticks on the foot-worn stairs, 

105 And the low, broad chimney shows the crack 
By the earthquake made a century back. 
Up from their midst springs the village spire 
With the crest of its cock in the sun afire ; 
Beyond are orchards and planting lands, 

no And great salt marshes and glimmering sands, 
And, where north and south the coastlines run 
The blink of the sea in breeze and sun! 

I see it all like a chart unrolled, 
But my thoughts are full of the past and old, 

115 I hear the tales of my boyhood told ; 

And the shadows and shapes of early days 
Flit dimly by in the veiling haze, 
With measured movement and rhythmic chime 
Weaving like shuttles my web of rhyme. 

120 I think of the old man wise and good 
Who once on yon misty hillsides stood, 
(A poet who never measured rhyme, 
A seer unknown to his dull-eared time,) 
And, propped on his staff of age, looked down, 

124. As a matter of fact Sewall was forty-five years old when 
he uttered his prophecy. 



PROPHECY OF SAMUEL SEWALL. 275 

125 With his boyhood's love, on his native town, 
AVhere, written, as if on its hills and plains, 
Plis burden of prophecy yet remains, 
For the voices of wood, and wave, and wind 
To read in the ear of the musing mind : — 

130 " As long as Flum Island, to guard the coast 
As God appointed, shall keep its post; 
As long as salmon shall haunt the deep 
Of Merrimack River, or sturgeon leap ; 
As long as pickerel swift and slim, 

135 Or red-backed perch, in Crane Pond swim; 
As long as the annual sea-fowl know 
Their time to come and their time to go ; 
As long as cattle shall roam at will 
The green, grass meadows by Turkey Hill ; 

140 As long as sheep shall look from the side 
Of Oldtown Hill on marishes wide, 
And Parker River, and salt-sea tide ; 
As long as a wandering pigeon shall search 
The fields below from his white-oak perch, 

145 When the barley-harvest is ripe and shorn. 

And the dry husks fall from the standing corn ; 
As long as Nature shall not grow old. 
Nor drop her work from her doting hold, 
And her care for the Indian corn forget, 

150 And the yellow rows in pairs to set ; — 
So long shall Christians here be born. 
Grow up and ripen as God's sweet corn! — 
By the beak of bird, by the breath of frost, 
Shall never a holy ear be lost, 

130. This prophecy in very rhythmic prose was first pub- 
lished ill Sewall's Phcenomena QuceJdm Apocahjptica. It will 
be found in Coffin's Hintonj of Newburyport and in The Bod- 
leys on Wheels, pp. 207, 208. 



276 WHITTIER. 

155 But, husked by Death in the Planter's sight, 
Be sown again in the fields of light ! " 

The Island still is purple with plums, 

Up the river the salmon comes, 

The sturgeon leaps, and the wild-fowl feeds 

160 On hillside berries and marish seeds, — 
All the beautiful signs remain. 
From S2n-ing-time sowing to autumn rain 
The good man's vision returns again! 
And let us hope, as well we can, 

165 That the Silent Angel who garners man 
May find some grain as of old he found 
In the human cornfield ripe and sound, 
And the Lord of the Harvest deign to own 
The precious seed by the fathers sown ! 



X. 

MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple beauty and rustic health. 

5 Singing she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 



MAUD MULLER. 277 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
lo And a nameless longing filled her breast, — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
For something better than she had known. 

The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 

15 He drew his bridle in the shade 

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
20 And filled for him her small tin cup. 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the Judge ; " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

25 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees 5 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
30 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

And listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 



278 WHITTIER. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

35 Maud MuUer looked and sighed: " Ah me! 
That I the Judge's bride might be! 

" He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; 
40 My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I 'd dress nay mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy each day. 

" And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

45 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud Muller standing still. 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
50 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

55 " But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and (juiet and loving words." 



MAUD MULLER. 279 

But he thought of his sisters pi-oud and cold, 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
60 And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
AVhen he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well 
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 

65 He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud MuUer's hazel eyes 
70 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms. 

75 And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again! 

" Free as when I rode that day, 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." 

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
80 And many children played round her door. 



280 WHITTIER. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 

85 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall, 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
90 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

95 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
100 Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich repiner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both! and pity us all. 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 



MAUD MULLER. 281 

105 For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these : " It might have been! " 

Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
no Roll the stone from its grave away ! 

106. The exigencies of rhyme have a heavy burden to bear in 
this Hue. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT was born at Cum- 
mington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794; 
he died in New York, June 12, 1878. His first 
poem, The Embargo, was published in Boston in 
1809, and was written when he was but thirteen 
years old ; his last poem, Our Fellow IVorshippers, 
was published in 1878. His long life thus was also 
a long career as a writer, and his first published 
poem prefigured the twofold character of his literary- 
life, for while it was in poetic form it was more 
distinctly a political article. He showed A^ery early 
a taste for poetry, and was encouraged to read and 
write verse by his father, Dr. Peter Bryant, a 
country physician of strong character and culti- 
vated tastes. He was sent to Williams College in 
the fall of 1810, where he remained two terms, 
when he decided to leave and enter Yale Col- 
lege ; but pecuniary troubles interfered with his 
plans and he never completed his college course. 
He pursued his literary studies at home, then be- 
gan the study of law and was admitted to the bar 
in 1815. Meantime he had been continuing to 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 283 

write, and during this period wrote witli many cor- 
rections and changes the poem by which he is still 
perhaps best known, lliaiiatopsis. It was pub- 
lished in the North American Revieio for Septem- 
ber, 1817, and the same pei'iodical published a few 
months afterward his lines To a Waterfowl, one of 
the most characteristic and lovely of Bryant's 
poems. Literature divided his attention with law, 
but evidently had his heart. In 1821 he was in- 
vited to read a poem before the Phi Beta Kappa 
Society of Harvard College, and he read The Ages, 
a stately grave poem which shows his own poetic 
power, his familiarity with the great masters 
of literature, and his lofty, philosophic nature. 
Shortly after this he issued a small volume of 
poems, and his name began to be known as that of 
the first American who had written poetry that 
could take its place in universal literature. His 
own decided preference for literature and the en- 
couragement of friends led to his abandonment of 
the law in 1825, and his removal to New York, 
where he undertook the associate-editorship of 
7^he New York Revieio and Athenceum Magazine. 
Poetic genius is not caused or controlled by cir- 
cumstance, but a purely literary life in a country 
not yet educated in literature was impossible to a 
man of no other means of support, and in a few 
months, after the Review had vainly tried to main- 
tain life by a frequent change of name, Bryant ac- 
cepted an appointment as assistant editor of The 
Evening Post. From 1826, then, until his death, 



284 BRYANT. 

Bryant was a journalist by profession. One effect 
of this change in his life was to eliminate from his 
poetry the political character which was displayed 
in his first published poem and had several times 
since showed itself, Thenceafter, he threw into 
his journalistic occupation all those thoughts and 
experiences which made him by nature a patriot 
and political thinker ; he reserved for poetry the 
calm reflection, love of nature, and purity of aspira- 
tion which made him a poet. His editorial writing 
was rendered strong and pure by his cultivated 
taste and lofty ideals, but he presented the rare 
combination of a poet who never sacrificed his love 
of high literature and his devotion to art, and of a 
jDublicist who retained a sound judgment and pur- 
sued the most practical ends. 

His life outwardly was uneventful. He made 
four journeys to Europe, in 1834, 1845, 1852, 
1857, and he made frequent tours in his own coun- 
try. His observations on his travels were pub- 
lished in Letters from a Traveller, Letters from the 
-East, and Letters from Spain and Other Countries. 
He never held public office, except that in 1860 he 
was a Presidential Elector, but he was connected 
intimately with important movements in society, 
literature, and politics, and was repeatedly called 
upon to deliver addresses commemorative of emi- 
nent citizens, as of Washington Irving, James 
Fenimore Cooper, and at the unveiling of the bust 
of Mazzini in the Central Park. His Orations 
and Addresses have been gathered into a volume. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 285 

The bulk of his poetry apart from his poetic 
translations is not considerable, and is made up 
almost wholly of short poems which are chiefly in- 
spired by his love of nature. R. H. Dana in liis 
preface to the Idle Man says : " I shall never for- 
get with what feeling my friend Bryant some years 
ago ^ described to me the effect produced upon 
him by his meeting for the first time with Words- 
worth's Ballads. He lived, when quite young, where 
but few works of poetry were to be had ; at a 
period, too, when Pope was still the great idol of 
the Temple of Art. He said, that upon opening 
Wordsworth, a thousand springs seemed to gush up 
at once in his heart, and the face of nature of a 
sudden to change into a strange freshness and life." 

This was the interjDreting power of Wordsworth 
suddenly disclosing to Bryant, not the secrets of 
nature, but his own powers of perception and in- 
terpretation. Byrant is in no sense an imitator of 
Wordsworth, but a comparison of the two poets 
would be of great interest as showing how individ- 
ually each pursued the same general poetic end. 
Wordsworth's Three Tears she grew in Sun and 
Shoicer and Bryant's Fairest of the Rural Maids 
offer an admirable opportunity for disclosing the 
separate treatment of similar subjects. In Bryant's 
lines, musical and full of a gentle revery, the poet 
seems to go deeper and deeper into the forest, al- 
most forgetful of the '• fairest of the rural maids ; " 
in Wordsworth's lines, with what simple yet pro- 
1 This was written in 1833. 



286 BRYANT. 

found feeling the poet, after delicately disclosing 
the intei'change of nature and human life, retirigs 
into those depths of human sympathy where nature 
must forever remain as a remote shadow. 

Bryant translated many short poems from the 
Spanish, but his largest literary undertaking was 
the translation of the Iliad and the Odyssey of 
Homer. He brought to this task great requisite 
powers, and if there is any failure it is in the ab- 
sence of Homer's lightness and rapidity, qualities 
which the elasticity of the Greek language es- 
pecially favored. 

A pleasant touch of simple humor appeared in 
some of his social addresses, and occasionally is 
found in his poems, as in Robert of Lincoln. Sug- 
gestions of personal experience will be read in such 
poems as The Cloud on the Way, The Life that is, 
and in the half-autobiograpliic poem, A Lifetime. 

The two poems which follow are the longest of 
Bryant's original poems, and while as fairy tales 
distinct from the usual subjects which he has taken, 
present many of his characteristics. 



I. 

SELLA. 

[Sella is the name given by the Vulgate to one 
of the wives of Lamech, mentioned in the fourth 
chapter of the Book of Genesis, and called ZiUah 
in the common Einglish version of the Bible. The 
meaning of the name is Slaadow, and in choosing it 
the poet seems to have had no reference to tlie 
BibUcal fact, but to the significance of the name, 
since he was telling of a creature who had the form 
without the substance of human kind. The story 
naturally suggests Fouque's Undine, and is in 
some respects a complement to that lovely romance. 
Undine is a water-nymph without a soul, who gains 
one only by marrying a human being, and in mar- 
rying tastes of the sorrows of life. Sella is of the 
human race, gifted with a soul, but having a long- 
ing for life among the water-nymphs. That life 
withdraws her from the troubles and cares of the 
world, and she loses more and more her interest in 
them ; when at last she is rudely cut off from 
sharing in the water-nymphs' life, is awakened as it 
were from a dream of beauty, she returns to the 
world after a brief struggle, mingles with it, and 
makes the knowledge gauied among the water- 
nymphs minister to the needs of men. 

The story must not be probed too ingeniously 



288 BRYANT. 

for its moral ; it is an exquisite fairy tale, but like 
many of such tales it involves a gentle parable, 
which has been hinted at above. If a more ex- 
plicit interpretation is desired, we may say that the 
passion for ideals, gradually withdrawing one from 
human sympathy, is made finally to ennoble and 
lift real life. The poet has not localized the poem 
nor given it a specific time, but left himself and the 
reader free by using the large terms of nature and 
human life, and referring the action to the early, 
formative period of the world. Observe Bryant's 
delicate and accurate transcriptions of faint charac- 
teristics of nature, as in lines 8, 12, 30, 35, 41, 215, 
238, 389.] 

Hear now a legend of the days of old — 
The days when there were goodly marvels yet, 
When man to man gave willing faith, and loved 
A tale the better that 't was wild and strange. 
5 Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brook 
Scudding along a narrow channel, paved 
With green and yellow pebbles; yet full clear 
Its waters were, and colorless and cool, 
As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oft 

10 Stood at the open window, leaning out, 
And listening to the sound the water made, 
A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same, 
And not the same ; and oft, as spring came on, 
She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank, 

1 5 To place within her bower, and when the herbs 
Of sununer drooped beneath the midday sun, 

11. Observe the various suggestions in the early lines of the 
poem of Sella's sympathy witli water life. 



SELLA. 289 

She sat within the shade of a great rock, 
Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song. 

Ripe were the maiden's years ; her stature 
showed 

20 Womanly beauty, and her clear, calm eye 
Was bright with venturous spirit, yet her face 
Was passionless, like those by sculptor graved 
For niches in a temple. Lovers oft 
Had wooed her, but she only laughed at love, 

25 And wondered at the silly things they said. 
'T was her delight to wander where wild vines 
O'erhang the river's brim, to climb the path 
Of woodland streamlet to its mountain springs, 
To sit by gleaming wells and mark below 

30 The image of the ru!<hes on its edge, 

And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slid 
Across the fair blue space. No little fount 
Stole forth from hanging rock, or in the side 
Of hollow dell, or under roots of oak, 

35 No rill came trickling, with a sti-ipe of green, 
Down the bare hill, that to this maiden's eyes 
Was not familiar. Often did the banks 
Of river or of sylvan lakelet hear 
The dip of oars with which the maiden rowed 

40 Her shallop, pushing ever from the prow 

A crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore. 

Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought. 
Within herself : " I would I were like them ; 
For then I might go forth alone, to trace 

45 The mighty rivers downward to the sea. 

And upward to the brooks that, through the year, 
Prattle to the cool valleys. I would know 

31. The clouds which she sees deep beyond are of course the 
reflection of the clouds passing over the well, as it; is not the 
rushes but the image of the rushes which she sees iu the water. 
19 



290 BRYANT. 

What races drink their waters ; how their chiefs 
Bear rule, and how men worship there, and how 

50 They build, and to what quaint device they frame, 
AVhere sea and river meet, their stately ships; 
What flowers are in their gardens, and what trees 
Bear fruit within their orchards; in what garb 
Their bowmen meet on holidays, and how 

55 Their maidens bind the waist and braid the hair. 
Here, on these hills, my father's house o'erlooks 
Broad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but 

there 
I hear they sprinkle the great plains with corn 
And watch its springing up, and when the green 

60 Is changed to gold, they cut the stems and bring 
The harvest in, and give the nations bread. 
And there they hew the quarry into shafts, 
And pile up glorious temples from the rock, 
And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men. 

65 All this I pine to see, and would have seen. 
But that I am a woman, long ago." 

Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream, 
Until, at length, one morn in early spring, 
When all the glistening fields lay white with frost, 

70 She came half breathless where her mother sat : 
" See, mother dear," said she, " what I have 

found. 
Upon our rivulet's bank; two slippers, white 
As the mid-winter snow, and spangled o'er 
With twinkling points, like stars, and on the edge 

72. The reader will recall instances of the magical or trans- 
forming character of slippers and the like : Mercury with his 
winged sandals, Cinderella with her glass slippers, tlie seven 
leagued boots, Puss in boots. A covering for the head is con- 
nected with the power of command and the power of invisibil- 
ity: a covering for the foot with magical power of motioii. 



SELLA. 291 

75 My name is wrouglit in silver ; read, I pray, 
Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven, 
Gave at my birth ; and sure, they fit my feet! " 
" A dainty pair," the prudent matron said, 
" But thine they are not. We must lay them by 

80 For those whose careless hands have left them 
here ; 
Or haply they were placed beside the brook 
To be a snare. I cannot see thy name 
Upon the border, — only characters 
Of mystic look and dim are there, like signs 

85 Of some strange art ; nay, daughter, wear them 

not." 

Then Sella hung the slippers in the porch 

Of that broad rustic lodge, and all who passed. 

Admired their fair contexture, but none knew 

Who left them by the brook. And now, at length, 

90 May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone, 
And on bright streams and into deep wells shone 
The high, mid-summer sun. One day, at noon, 
Sella was missed from the accustomed meal. 
They sought her in her favorite haunts, they looked 

95 By the great rock, and far along the stream, 
And shouted in the sounding woods her name. 
Night came and forth the sorrowing household 

went 
With torches over the wide pasture grounds 
To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell, 
100 And solitary valley far away. 

The morning came, and Sella was not found. 

82. In the mother's inability to read Sella's name on the slip- 
per is sujjjgested that unimaginative nature which is so often rep- 
resented in fairy tales for a foil to the imagination. Hawthorne 
has used this open-eyed blindness with excellent effect iu his 
Story of the Snow Imaye. 



292 BRYANT. 

The sun climbed high ; they sought her still ; the 

noon, 
The hot and silent noon, heard Sella's name, 
Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastes 

105 O'er which the eagle hovered. As the sun 

Stooped toward the amber west to bring the close 
Of that sad second day, and, with red eyes, 
The mother sat within her home alone, 
Sella was at her side. A shriek of joy 

no Broke the sad silence; glad, warm tears were shed, 
And words of gladness uttered. " Oh, forgive," 
The maiden said, " that I could ever forget 
Thy wishes for a moment. I just tried 
The slippers on, amazed to see them shaped 

115 So fairly to my feet, when, all at once, 
I felt my steps upborne and hurried on 
Almost as if with wings. A strange delight, 
Blent with a thrill of fear, o'ermastered me, 
And, ere I knew, my plashing stejjs were set 

120 Within the rivulet's pebbly bed, and I 

Was rushing down the current. By my side 
Tripped one as beautiful as ever looked 
From white clouds in a dream ; and, as we ran. 
She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed; 

125 Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool, 
And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock. 
And glided between shady meadow banks. 
The streamlet, broadening as we went, became 
A swelling river, and we shot along 

130 By stately towns, and under leaning masts 
Of gallant barks, nor lingered by the shore 
Of blooming gardens; onward, onward still, 
The same strong impulse bore me till, at last. 
We entered the great deep, and passed below 

135 His billows, into boundless spaces, lit 



SELLA. 293 

With a green sunshine. Here were mighty groves 
Far down the ocean valleys, and between 
Lay what might seem fair meadows, softly tinged 
With orange and with crimson. Here arose 

140 Tall stems, that, rooted in the doptlis below, 
Swung idly with the motions of the sea; 
And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screen 
The creatures of the deep made haunt. My 

friend 
Named the strange growths, the pretty coralline, 

145 The dulse with crimson leaves, and streaming far, 
Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spread 
Its broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers be- 
neath. 
And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands. 
Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked in 

150 At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls 
Lay in blue twilight. As we moved along, 
The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds, 
Passed by us, reverently they passed us by, 
Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine, 

155 Huge whales, that drew the waters after them, 
A torrent stream, and hideous hammer-sharks, 
Chasing their prey ; I shuddered as they came ; 
Gently they turned aside and gave us room." 
Hereat broke in the mother, " Sella, dear, 

160 This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream." 

" Nay, mother, nay ; behold this sea-green 
scarf. 
Woven of such threads as never human hand 
Twined from the distaff. She who led my way 
Through the great waters, bade me wear it home, 

165 A token that my tale is true. ' And keep,' 

She said, ' the slippers thou hast found, for thou, 
When shod with them, shalt be like one of us, 



294 BRYANT. 

With power to walk at will the ocean floor, 
Among its monstrous creatures unafraid, 

170 And feel no longing for the air of heaven 

To fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red blood 
Along thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hours 
In dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth, 
To look into the mysteries of the abyss 

175 Where never plummet reached. And thou shalt 
sleep 
Thy weariness away on downy banks 
Of sea-moss, where the pulses of the tide 
Shall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt float 
On the soft currents that go forth and wind 

180 From isle to isle, and wander thi'ough the sea. 
" So spake my fellow-voyager, her words 
Sounding like wavelets on a summer shore, 
And then we stopped beside a hanging rock 
With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot, 

185 Where three fair creatures like herself were set 
At their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks. 
Culled from the ocean's meadows, and the sweet 
Midrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruits, 
Droj)ped from the trees that edge the southern 
isles, 

{90 And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayed 
That I would share their meal, and I partook 
With eager appetite, for long had been 
My journey, and 1 left the spot refreshed. 
" And then we wandered off amid the groves 

195 Of coral loftier than the growths of earth ; 
The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs. 
So huge, so high, toward heaven, nor overhangs 
Alleys and bowers so dim. We moved between 
Pinnacles of black rock, which, from beneath, 

200 Molten by inner fires, so said my guide, 



SELLA. 295 

Gushed long ago into the hissuig brine, 

That quench(!d and hardened tliem, and now they 

stand 
Motionless in the currents of the sea 
That part and flow around them. As we went, 

205 We looked into the hollows of the abyss, 
To which the never-resting waters sweep 
The skeletons of sharks, the long white spines 
Of narwhale and of dolj)hin, bones of men 
Shipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks. 

210 Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on. 
" But beautiful the fountains of the sea 
Sprang upward from its bed ; the silvery jets 
Shot branching far into the azure brine, 
And where they mingled with it, the great deep 

215 Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air 
Above a furnace. So we wandered through 
The mighty world of waters, till at length 
I wearied of its wonders, and my heart 
Began to yearn for my dear mountain home. 

220 I pi'ayed my gentle guide to lead me back 

To the upper air. ' A glorious realm,' I said, 
' Is this thou openest to me ; but I stray 
Bewildered in its vastness ; these strange sights 
And this strange light oppress me. I must see 

225 The faces that 1 love, or I shall die.' 

" She took my hand, and, darting through the 
waves. 
Brought me to where the stream, by which we 

came. 
Rushed into the main ocean. Then began 

224. How very often in fairv tales the human being has but 
to exercise the will to attain or to renounce the fairy power. It 
is only when one is under a spell, in the classic fairy tales, that 
the will is not recognized as the supreme authority. 



296 BRYANT. 

A slower journey upwarrl. Wearily 

230 We breasted the strong current, climbing through 
The rapids tossing high their foam. Tlie night 
Came down, and, in the clear depth of a pool, 
Edged with o'erhanging rock, we took our rest 
Till morning; and I slept, and dreamed of home 

235 And thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed; 
The green fields of this upper world, the herds 
That grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds, 
The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves, 
Lifting and lowering to the restless wind 

240 Their branches. As I woke I saw them all 

From the clear stream; yet strangely was my heart 
Parted between the watery world and this. 
And as we journeyed upward, oft I thought 
Of marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned, 

245 And lingered, till I thought of thee again; 
And then again I turned and clambered up 
The rivulet's murmuring path, until we came 
Beside this cottage door. There tenderly 
My fair conductor kissed me, and I saw 

250 Her face no more. I took the slippers off. 
Oh ! with what deep delight my lungs drew ia 
The air of heaven again, and with what joy 
I felt my blood bound with its former glow; 
And now I never leave thy side again." 

255 So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tears 
Standing in her mild eyes, and in the porch 
Replaced the slippers. Autumn came and went; 
The winter passed; another summer warmed 
The quiet pools; another autumn tinged 

260 The grape with red, yet while it hung unplucked, 

245. The humanizing of Ihu character of Sella is effected by 
such touches as this. 



SELLA. 297 

The mother ere her time was carried forth 
To sleep among the solitary hills. 

A long still sadness settled on that home 
Among the mountains. The stern father there 

265 Wept with his children, and grew soft of heart, 
And Sella, and the brothers twain, and one 
Younger than they, a sister fair and shy, 
Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round 

it set 
Shrubs that all winter held their lively green. 

270 Time passed ; the grief with which their hearts 
were wrung 
Waned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now, 
Was often absent from the patriarch's board ; 
The slippers hung no longer in the porch ; 
And sometimes after summer nights her couch 

275 Was found unpressed at dawn, and well they 
knew 
That she was wandering with the race who make 
Their dwelling in the waters. Oft her looks 
Fixed on blank space, and oft the ill-suited word 
Told that her thoughts were far away. In vain 

280 Pier brothers reasoned with her tenderly. 

"Oh leave not thus thy kindred;" so they 

prayed : 
" Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birth 
Is in her grave, oh go not hence, to seek 
Companions in that strange cold realm below, 

285 For which God made not us nor thee, but stay 
To be the grace and glory of our home." 
She looked at .them with those mild eyes and 

wept. 
But said no word in answer, nor refrained 
From those mysterious wanderings that filled 

290 Their loving hearts with a jjcrpetual pain. 



298 BRYANT. 

And now the younger sister, fair and shy, 
Had grown to early womanhood, and one 
Who loved her well had wooed her for his bride, 
And she had named the wedding day. The herd 

295 Had given its fatlings for the marriage feast ; 
The roadside garden and the secret glen 
Were rifled of their sweetest flowers to twine 
The door posts, and to lie among the locks 
Of maids, the wedding guests; and from the 
boughs 

300 Of mountain orchards had the fairest fruit 
Been plucked to glisten in the canisters. 

Then, trooping over hill and valley, came 
Matron and maid, grave men and smiling youths. 
Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight. 

305 In costumes of that simpler age tliey came, 

That gave the limbs large play, and wrapt the 

form 
In easy folds, yet bright with glowing hues 
As suited holidays. All hastened on 
To that glad bridal. There already stood 

310 The priest prepared to say the spousal rite, 
And there the harpers in due order sat, 
And there the singers. Sella, midst them all. 
Moved strangely and serenely beautiful, 
With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and 
cheek 

315 Colorless as the lily of the lakes. 

Yet moulded to such shape as artists give 
To beings of immortal youth. Her hands 
Had decked her sister for the bridal hour 
With chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate 
threads 

320 Vied with the spider's spinning. There she stood 
With such a gentle pK-asure in her looks 



SELLA. 299 

As might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyes 
Gracing a bridal of the race whose flocks 
Were pastured on the borders of her stream. 

325 She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the 
smile 
Was soon to pass away. That very morn 
The elder of the brothers, as he stood 
Upon the hillside, had beheld the maid, 
Emerging from the channel of the brook, 

330 With three fresh water lilies in her hand. 
Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleft 
Of hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs, 
Bestow the spangled slippers. None before 
Had known where Sella hid them. Then she laid 

335 The light brown tresses smooth, and in them 
twined 
The lily buds, and hastily drew forth 
And threw across her shoulders a light robe 
Wrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps 
Ran toward the lodge. The youth beheld and 
mai'ked 

340 The spot and slowly followed from afar. 

Now had the marriage rite been said ; the bride 
Stood in the blush that from her burning cheek 
Glowed down the alabaster neck, as morn 
Crimsons the pearly heaven halfway to the west. 

345 At once the harpers struck their chords ; a gush 
Of music broke upon the air ; the youths 
All started to the dance. Among them moved 
The queenly Sella with a grace that seemed 
Caught from the swaying of the summer sea. 

322. The gentle turning-point of the poem. For a moment 
the Sella of her dreams stands before us; the idealizing of the 
human creature lias been carried to its finest limit, and is ar- 
rested now just short of the disappearance of the human soul. 



300 BRYANT. 

350 The young drew forth the elders to the dance, 
Who joined it half abashed, but when they felt 
The joyous music tingling in their veins. 
They called for quaint old measures, which they 

trod 
As gayly as in youth, and far abroad 

355 Came through the open windows cheerful shouts 
And bursts of laughter. They who heard the 

sound 
Upon the mountain footpaths paused and said, 
" A merry wedding." Lovers stole away 
That sunny afternoon to bowers that edged 

360 The garden walks, and what was whispered there 
The lovers of these later times can guess. 

Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry din 
Was loudest, stole to where the slippers lay, 
And took them thence, and followed down the brook 

365 To where a little rapid rushed between 

Its borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in. 
The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung up 
Its small bright waves like hands, and seemed to 

take 
The prize with eagerness and draw it down. 

370 They, gleaming through the waters as they went, 
And striking with light sound the shining stones, 
Slid down the stream. The bi'others looked and 

watched 
And listened with full beating hearts, till now 
The sight and sound had passed, and silently 

375 And half repentant hastened to the lodge. 
The sun was near his set; the music rang 
Within the dwelling still, but the mirth waned; 
For groups of guests were sauntering toward their 

homes 
Across the fields, and far on hillside paths, 



SELLA. 301 

380 Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sulla grew 
Weary of the long merriment ; she thought 
Of her still haunts beneath the soundless sea, 
And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleft 
Where she had laid the slippers. They were gone. 

385 She searched the brookside near, yet found them 
not. 
Then her heart sank within her, and she ran 
Wildly from place to place, and once again 
She searched the secret cleft, and next she stooped 
And with spread palms felt carefully beneath 

390 The tufted herbs and bushes, and again, 
And yet again she searched the rocky cleft. 
" Who could have taken them? " That question 

cleared 
The mystery. She remembered suddenly 
That when the dance was in its gayest whirl, 

395 Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length, 
They reappeared, the elder joined the sports 
With shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eye 
The younger shrank in silence. " Now, I know 
The guilty ones," she said, and left the spot, 

400 And stood before the youths with such a look 
Of anguish and reproach that well they knew 
Her thought, and almost wished the deed undone. 
Frankly they owned the charge : ' ' And pardon 
us ; 
We did it all in love ; we could not bear 

405 That the cold world of waters and the strange 
Beings that dwell within it should beguile 
Our sister from us." Then they told her all ; 
How they had seen her stealthily bestow 
The slippers in the cleft, and how by stealth 

410 They took them thence and bore them down the 
brook, 



302 BRYANT. 

And dropped them in, and how the eager waves 
Gathered and drew them down: but at that word 
The maiden shrieked — a broken-hearted shriek — ■ 
And all who heard it shuddererl and turned pale 

415 At the despairing cry, and " They are gone," 
She said, " gone — gone forever. Cruel ones ! 
'T is you who shut me out eternally 
From that serener world which I had learned 
To love so well. Why took ye not my life? 

420 Ye cannot know what ye have done." She spake 
And hurried to her chamber, and the guests 
Who yet had lingei'ed silently withdrew. 

The brothers followed to the maiden's bower, 
But with a calm demeanor, as they came, 

425 She met them at the door. " The wrong is great," 
She said, " that ye have done me, but no power 
Have ye to make it less, nor yet to soothe 
My sorrow ; I shall bear it as I may, 
The better for the hours that I have passed 

430 In the calm region of the middle sea. 

Go, then. I need you not." They, overawed. 
Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her 

tears 
Broke forth a flood, as when the August cloud, 
Darkening beside the mountain, suddenly 

435 Melts into streams of rain. That weary night 

She paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked, 
" O peaceful region of the middle sea ! 

azure bowers and grots, in which I loved 
To roam and rest 1 Am I to long for you, 

440 And think how strangely beautiful ye are. 
Yet never see you more? And dearer yet, 
Ye gentle ones in whose sweet company 

1 trod the shelly pavements of the deep. 

And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyes 



SELLA. 303 

445 Looking the tenderest love, and voices soft 
As ripple of light waves along the shore, 
Uttering the tenderest words ! Oh! ne'er again 
Shall I, in your mild aspects, read the peace 
That dwells within, and vainly shall I pine 

450 To hear your sweet low voices. Haply now 
Ye miss me in your deep-sea home, and think 
Of me with pity, as of one condemned 
To haunt this upper world, with its harsh sounds 
And glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts, 

455 Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes. 
And all its feverish passions, till I die." 

So mourned she the long night, and when the 
morn 
Brightened the mountains, from her lattice looked 
The maiden on a world that was to her 

460 A desolate and dreary waste. That day 

She passed in wandering by the brook that oft 
Had been her pathway to the sea, and still 
Seemed, with its cheerful murmur, to invite 
Her footsteps thither. " Well may'st thou re- 
joice, 

465 Fortunate stream! " she said, " and dance along 
Thy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain 
Of music, for thou journeyest toward the deep. 
To which I shall return no more." The night 
Brought her to her lone chamber, and she knelt 

470 And prayed, with many tears, to Him whose hand 
Touches the wounded heart and it is healed. 
With prayer there came new thoughts and new 

desires. 
She asked for patience and a deeper love 
For those with whom her lot was henceforth cast, 

475 And that in acts of mercy she might lose 

The sense of her own sorrow. When she rose 



304 BRYANT. 

A weight was lifted from her heart. She sought 
Her couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep. 
At morn she woke to a new life. Her days 

480 Henceforth were given to quiet tasks of good 

In the great world. Men hearkened to her words, 
And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed, 
And saw how beautiful the law of love 
Can make the cares and toils of daily life. 

485 Still did she love to haunt the springs and 
brooks, 
As in her cheerful childhood, and she taught 
The skill to pierce the soil and meet the veins 
Of clear cold water winding underneath, 
And call them forth to daylight. From afar 

490 She bade men bring the rivers on long rows 
Of pillared arches to the sultry town, 
And on the hot air of the summer fling 
The spray of dashing fountains. To relieve 
Their weary hands, she showed them how to tame 

495 The rushing stream, and make him drive the 
wheel 
That whirls the humming millstone and that 

wields 
The ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud, 
That drench the hillside in the time of rains, 
Were gathered at her bidding into pools, 

500 And in the months of drought led forth again. 
In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales. 
Till the sky darkened with returning showers. 
So passed her life, a long and blameless life, 
And far and near her name was named with love 

479. In the new life to which Sella awakes, one notes that it 
is the old world in whicli she had lived endowed now with tiiose 
gifts which her ripened soul brought fnun the ideal world in 
which she had hoped to lose herself. 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNO W. 305 

505 And reverence. Still she kept, as age came on, 
Her stately presence ; still her eyes looked forth 
From under their calm brows as brightly clear 
As the transparent wells by which she sat 
So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair 

510 Unwrinkled features, though her locks were white. 
A hundred times had summer since her birth 
Opened the water lily on the lakes, 
So old traditions tell, before she died. 
A hundred cities mourned her, and her death 

515 Saddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook, 
That bickering ran beside the cottage door 
Where she was born, they reared her monument. 
Ere long the current parted and flowed round 
The marble base, forming a little isle, 

520 And there the flowers that love the running stream, 
Iris and orchis, and the cardinal flower. 
Crowded and hung caressingly around 
The stone engraved with Sella's honored name. 



II. 

THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 

[In this tender fancy Bryant has treated the per- 
sonality of the snow with a kinder, more sympa- 
thetic touch than poets have been wont to give it. 
With many the cruelty of cold or its treacherous 
nature is most significant. Hans Christian Andei-- 
sen, for example, in the story of The Ice Maiden 
has taken a similar theme, but has emphasized the 
seductive treachery of the Spirit of Cold. Here 
20 



306 BRYANT. 

Bryant has given the true fairy, innocent of evil 
purpose, yet inflicting grievous wrong through its 
nature ; sorrowing over the dead Eva, but without 
the remorse of human beings. The time of the 
story is j^laced in legendary antiquity by the ex- 
clusion of historic times in lines 35-41, and the 
antiquity is still more positively affirmed by the 
lines at the close accounting for our not now seeing 
the Little People of the Snow. The children had 
asked for a fairy tale, and it is made more real 
by being placed at so ethereal a distance.] 



Alice. One of your old world stories, Uncle 
John , 
Such as you tell us by the winter fire, 
Till we all wonder it has grown so late. 

Uncle John, The story of the witch that ground 
to death 
5 Two children in her mill, or will you have 
The tale of Goody Cutpurse? 

Alice. Nay now, nav; 

Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, 
Too childish even for little Willy here, 
And I am older, two good years, than he; 
ID No, let us have a tale of elves that ride 

By night with jingling reins, or gnomes of the 

mine. 
Or water- fairies, such as you know how 
To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink, 

6. Goody Cut-purse, or Moll Cut-purse, was a famous liij^h- 
way wman of Sliakspere's time who robbed people as auda- 
ciously «s did Jack Slieppard. 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNO W. 307 

And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 
Lays down her knitting. 

15 Uncle John. Listen to me, then. 

'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago, 
And long before the great oak at our door 
Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side 
Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt 

20 Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, 

A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren 
Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass. 
Flowers opened earliest ; but, when winter came. 
That little brook was fringed with other flowers, — 

25 White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that 
grew 
In clear November nights. And, later still. 
That mountain glen was filled with drifted snows 
From side to side, that one might walk across. 
While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook 

30 Sang to itself, and leapt and trotted on 
Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. 
Alice. A mountain's side, you said; the Alps, 
perhaps, 
Or our own Alleghanies. 

Uncle John. Not so fast, 

My young geographer, for then the Alps, 

35 With their broad pastures, haply were untrod 
Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice 
Had sounded in the woods that overhang 
Our Alleghany's streams. I think it was 
Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 

40 Or where the rivulets of Ararat 

Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose 
So high, that, on its top, the winter snow 
Was never melted, and the cottagers 
Among the summer blossoms, far below, 

45 Saw its white peaks in August from their door. 



308 BRYANT. 

One little maiden, in that cottage home, 
Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, 
Bi'ight, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, 
Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean waves, 
50 And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, 
As Alice does. 

Alice. Or Willy, quite as oft. 

Uncle John. But you are older, Alice, two good 
years, 
And should be wiser. Eva was the name 
Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. 
55 Now you must know that, in those early times, 
When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop 
Of childlike forms from that cold mountain top ; 
With trailing garments through the air they came, 
Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw 
60 Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass. 

And edged the brook with glistening parapets, 
And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool. 
And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence. 
They shook, from their full laps, the soft, light 
snow, 
65 And buried the great earth, as autumn winds 
Bury the forest floor in heaps of leaves. 

A beautiful race were they, with baby brows, 
And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound 
Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked 
70 With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight 
It was, when, crowding round the traveller, 
They smote him with their heaviest snow flakes, 

flung 
Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks. 
And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, 
75 Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and 
laughed 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNO W. 309 

Tlicir slender laugh to see him wink and grin 
And make grim faces as he floundered on. 

But, when the spring came on, what terror 
reigned 
Among these Little People of the Snow ! 
80 To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire, 
And the soft south wind was the wind of death. 
Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 
Upon their childish faces, to the north. 
Or scampered upward to the mountain's top, 
85 And there defied their enemy, the Spring; 
Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks. 
And moulding little snow-balls in theu' palms, 
And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, 
Down the steep snow-fields. 

Alice. That, too, must have been 

A merry sight to look at. 
90 Uncle John. You are right, 

But I must speak of graver matters now. 

Mid-winter was the time, and Eva stood 
Within the cottage, all prepared to dare 
The outer cold, with ample furry robe 
95 Close belted round her waist, and boots of fur, 
And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand 
Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. 
" Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame, 
" For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, 
100 Go not upon the snow beyond the spot 

Where the great hnden bounds the neighboring 
field." 
The little maiden promised, and went forth, 
And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with 

frost 
Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, 
105 Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 



310 BRYANT. 

She slowly rose, before her, in the way, 
She saw a little creature lily-cheeked, 
With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes. 
That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed 
no Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek. 
On a smooth bank she sat. 

Alice. She must have been 

One of your Little People of the Snow. 

Uncle John. She was so, and, as Eva now 
drew near. 
The tiny creature bounded from her seat; 
115 "And come," she said, "my pretty friend; to- 
day 
We will be playmates. I have watched thee long. 
And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts, 
And scoop their fair sides into little cells, 
And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed 
men, 
120 Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day, 
A merry ramble over these bright fields, 
And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen." 

On went the pair, until they reached the bound 
Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow, 
125 Up to the lower branches. " Here we stop," 
Said Eva, "for my mother has my word 
That I will go no further than this tree." 
Then the snow-maiden laughed; " And what is 

this? 
This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, 
130 That never harmed ought living? Thou may'st 
roam 
For leagues beyond this garden, and return 
In safety; here the grim wolf never prowls. 
And here the eagle of our mountain crags 
Preys not in winter. I will show the way 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 311 

135 And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, 
Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide." 

By such smooth words was Eva won to break 
Her promise, and went on with her new friend, 
Over the glistening snow and down a bank 

140 Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind, 
Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, 
Curtained an opening. " Look, we enter here." 
And straight, beneath the fair o'ei'hanging fold, 
Entered the little pair that hill of snow, 

145 Walking along a passage with white walls, 

And a white vault above where snow-stars shed 
A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, 
And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled. 
And talked and tripped along, as, down the way, 

150 Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 

And now the white walls widened, and the vault 
Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral dome, 
Such as the Florentine, who bore the name 
Of Heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since, 

155 Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, 
The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay, 
In which the Little People of the Snow 
Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks 

137. The idea of sin is very lightly touched in the poem, and 
there is no conscious temptation to evil on the part of the Snow- 
maiden. The absence of a moral sense in the Little People of 
the Snow is very delicately assumed here. It is with fairies 
that the poet is dealing, and not with diminutive human be- 
ings. 

1-16. The star form of the snow-crj'stal gives a peculiar truth- 
fulness to the poet's fancy. 

154. il/«c/trte/ Angelo, the great Florentine architect, sculptor, 
and painter. 

156. In Bryant's Letters of a Traveller, second series, will be 
found an account of Burgos Cathedral. 



312 BRYANT. 

Upon the mountain's side and in the clouds 

l6o Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost 
To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower. 
The growths of summer. Here the palm up- 
reared 
Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf 
Of plume-like leaves; here cedars, huge as those 

165 Of Lebanon, sti*etched far their level boughs, 
Yet pale and shadowless ; the sturdy oak 
Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming 

strength, 
Fast anchored in the glistening bank ; light sprays 
Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, 

170 Drooped by the winding walks; yet all seemed 
wrought 
Of stainless alabaster ; up the trees 
Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf 
Colorless as her flowers. '' Go softly on," 
Said the snow-maiden ; " touch not, with thy hand, 

175 The frail creation round thee, and beware 

To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above. 
How sumptuously these bowers are liglited up 
With shifting gleams that softly come and go. 
These are the northern lights, such as thou seest 

180 In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames. 
That float, with our processions, through the air ; 
And, here within our winter palaces. 
Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she told 
How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, 

185 Swept the light snows into the hollow dell. 
She and her comrades guided to its place 
Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, 
In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, 
W^ith shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow, 

190 Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 313 

In gardens such as these, and, o'er them all, 
Built the broad roof. " But thou hast yet to see 
A fairer sight," she said, and led the way 
To where a window of pellucid ice 

195 Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path. 

"Look, but thou may'st not enter." Eva looked. 
And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose high vault 
Stripes of soft Hght, ruddy, and delicate green. 
And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor 

200 And far around, as if the aerial hosts, 

That march on high by night, with beamy spears. 
And streaming banners, to that place had brought 
Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 
And in that hull a joyous multitude 

205 Of those by whom its glistening walls were reared, 
Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, 
That rang from cymbals of transparent ice. 
And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch 
Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, 

210 As when, in spring, about a chimney top, 

A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned. 
Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again. 
Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly 
Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, 

215 Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that 
looked 
From under lily brows, and gauzy scarfs 
Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun. 
Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. 
And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight 

220 Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep 
Of motion as they passed her; — long she gazed. 
And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled 
The fi'osty air, till now the encroaching cold 
Recalled her to herself. " Too long, too lonrj 



314 BRYANT. 

225 I linger here," slie said, and then she sprang 
Into the path, and with a hurried step 
Followed it upward. Ever by her side 
Her little guide kept pace. As on they went 
Eva bemoaned her fault: '* What must they thinks 

230 The dear ones in the cottage, while so long. 
Hour after hour, I stay without? I know 
That they will seek me far and near, and weep 
To find me not. How could I, wickedly. 
Neglect the charge they gave me? " As she spoke, 

235 The hot tears started to her eyes ; she knelt 
In the mid path. " Father! forgive this sin ; 
Forgive myself I cannot " — thus she prayed. 
And rose and hastened onward. When, at last. 
They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed 

240 A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, 
But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt 
The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy. 
And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to 

drift. 
And danced I'oimd Eva, as she labored up 

245 The mounds of snow, " Ah me! I feel my eyes 
Grow heavy," Eva said; " they swim with sleep; 
I cannot walk for utter weariness. 
And I must rest a moment on this bank, 
But let it not be long." As thus she spoke, 

250 In half- formed words, she sank on the smooth 
snow, 
With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe 
About her limbs, and said," A pleasant spot 
Is this to slumber in; on such a couch 
Oft have I slept away the winter night, 

255 And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept, 
But slept in death; for when the power of frost 
Locks up the motions of the living frame, 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 315 

The victim passes to the reahu of Death 
Thi'ough the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, 

260 Watching beside her, saw the hues of life 

Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, 
As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, 
Till they were white as marble, and the breath 
Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not 

265 At first that this was death. But when she 
marked 
How deep the paleness was, how motionless 
That once lithe form, a fear came over her. 
She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, 
And shouted in her ear, but all in vain ; 

270 The life had passed away from those young limbs. 
Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, 
Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, 
Sleepless through all the long December night, 
Hears when the mournful East begins to blow. 

275 But suddenly was heard the sound of steps. 
Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers 
Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw 
The twain, and hurried toward them. As they 

came, 
With gentle chidings ready on their lips, 

280 And marked that deathlike slee^), and heard the 
tale 
Of the snow- maiden, mortal anguish fell 
Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief 
And blame were uttered: " Cruel, ci-uel one. 
To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, 

285 Who suffered her to wander forth alone 

In this fierce cold." They lifted the dear child. 
And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs. 
And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, 
To make the chilled blood move, and win the 
breath 



31 G BRYANT. 

290 Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove. 
The little maid was dead. In blank despair 
They stood, and gazed at her who never more 
Should look on them. " Why die we not with 

her?" 
They said ; " without her life is bitterness." 

295 Now came the funeral day; the simple folk 
Of all that pastoral region gathered round, 
To share the sorrow of the cottagers. 
They carved a way into the mound of snow 
To the glen's side, and dug a little grave 

300 In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, 
In long procession from the silent door. 
Chanted a sad and solemn melody. 

" Lay her away to rest within the ground. 
Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life 

305 Was spotless as these snows ; for she was reared 
In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, 
And all that now our tenderest love can do 
Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs." 

They paused. A thousand slender voices round, 

310 Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill. 
Took up the strain, and all the hollow air 
Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, on that day, 
The Little People of the Snow had come. 
From mountain peak, and cloud, and icy hall, 

315 To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, 

The funeral train renewed the solemn chant. 

" Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, 
Whose gentle name was given her. Even so. 
For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best 

320 For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, 
And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, 
As, with submissive tears, we render back 
The lovely and beloved to Him who gave." 



LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 317 

They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose. 
325 From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, 
And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with 

snow. 
Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away 
To silence in the dim-seen distant woods. 

The little grave was closed ; the funeral train 
330 Departed; winter wore away; the spring 

Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet 

tufts. 
By fond hands planted where the maiden slept. 
But, after Eva's burial, never more 
The Little People of the Snow were seen 
335 By human eye, nor ever human ear 

Heard from their lips articulate speech again; 
For a decree went forth to cut them off. 
Forever, from communion with mankind. 
The winter clouds, along the mountain-side, 
340 Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair 
form 
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, 
And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, 
Where once they made their haunt, was empti- 
ness. 
But ever, when the wintry days drew near, 
345 Around that little grave, in the long night. 

Frost-wreaths were laid, and tufts of silvery rime 
In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, 
As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born at Cam- 
bridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1809. The 
old house in which he was born, still standing near 
the colleges, has a historic interest as having been 
tlie headquarters of General Artemas Ward, and of 
the Committee of Safety in the days just before the 
Revolution. Upon the steps of the house stood 
President Langdon of Harvard College, tradition 
says, and prayed for the men who, halting there a 
few moments, marched forward under Colonel Pres- 
cott's lead to throw up intrenclnnents on Bunker 
Hill on the night of June 16, 1775. Dr. Holmes's 
father carried forward the traditions of the old 
house, for he was Rev. Dr. Abiel Holmes whose 
American Annals was the first careful record of 
American history, written after the Revolution. 

Born and bred in the midst of historic associa- 
tions, Holmes had from the first a lively interest in 
American history and politics, and though pos- 
sessed of strong humorous gifts, has often turned 
his song into patriotic channels, while the current 
of his litei"ary life has been distinctly American. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 319 

He began to write poetry when in college at Cam- 
bridge, and some of his best known early pieces, 
like Evening by a Tailor, The fleeting of the Dry- 
ads, The Spectre Pig, were contributed to the Col- 
legian, an undergraduate journal, while he was 
studying law the year after his graduation. At 
this same time he wrote the well-known poem Old 
Ironsides, a protest against the proposed breaking 
up of the frigate Constitution ; the poem was 
printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, and its in- 
dignation and fervor carried it through the country 
and raised such a popular feeling that the ship was 
saved from an ignominious destruction. Holmes 
shortly gave up the study of law, went abroad to 
study medicine and returned to take his degree at 
Harvard in 1836. At the same time he delivered 
a poem, Poetry, a Metrical Essay, before the Phi 
Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, and ever since his 
profession of medicine and his love of literature 
have received his united care and thought. In 1838 
he was appointed Professor of Anatomy and Phys- 
iology at Dartmouth College, but remained there 
only a year or two, when he returned to Boston, 
married and practised medicine. In 1847 he was 
made Parkman Professor of Anatomy and Phys- 
iology in the Medical School of Harvard College, 
a position which he still holds. 

In 1857, when the Atlantic Monthly was estab- 
lished. Professor Lowell, who was asked to be editor, 
consented on condition that Dr. Holmes should be 
a regular contributor. Dr. Holmes at that time 



320 HOLMES. 

was known as the author of a numbev of poems of 
grace, life, and wit, and he had published several 
professional papers and books, but his brilliancy as 
a talker gave him a strong local reputation, and 
Lowell shrewdly guessed that he would bring to 
the new magazine a singularly fresh and iinusual 
power. He was right, for The Autocrat of the 
Breakfast- Table beginning in the first number un- 
questionably insured the Atlantic, its early success. 
The readers of the day had forgotten that Holmes, 
twenty-five years before, had begun a series with 
the same title in Buckingham's New England Mag- 
azine, a periodical of short life, so they did not at 
first understand why he should begin his first ar- 
ticle, " I was just going to say, when I was in- 
teri'upted." From that time Dr. Holmes was a 
frequent contributor to the magazine, and in it ap- 
peared successively, The Autocrat of the Breahfast- 
Table, The Professor at the Breakfast-Tahle, Elsie 
Venner, The Professor's Story, The Guardian Angel, 
The Poet at the Breakfast- Table, — prose papers, 
and stories with occasional insertion of verse ; here 
also have been printed the many poems which he 
has so freely and happily written for festivals and 
public occasions, including the frequent poems at 
the yearly meetings of his college class. The wit 
and humor which have made his poetry so well 
known would never have given him his high rank 
had they not been associated with an admirable art 
which makes every word necessary and felicitous, 
and a generous nature which is quick to seize upon 
what touclies a common life. 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY OF BUNKER 
HILL BATTLE. 

AS SHE SAW IT FROM THE BELFRY. 

[This poem was first published in 1875, in con- 
nection with the centenary of the battle of Bunker 
Hill. The belfry could hardly have been that of 
Clirist Church, since tradition says that General 
Gage was stationed there watching the battle, and 
we may make it to be what was known as the new 
Brick Church, built in 1721, on Hanover, corner of 
Richmond Street, Boston, rebuilt of stone in 1845, 
and pulled down at the widening of Hanover Street 
in 1871. There are many narratives of the battle 
of Bunker Hill. Frothingham's History of the 
Siege of Boston is one of the most comprehensive 
accounts, and has furnished material for many pop- 
ular narratives. The centennial celebration of the 
battle called out magazine and newspaper articles, 
which give the story with little variation. There 
are not many disputed points in connection with 
the event, the principal one being the discussion as 
to who was the chief officer.] 
21 



322 HOLMES. 

'Tis like stirring living embers when, at eighty, 

one remembers 
All the achings and the quakings of "the times 

that tried men's souls "; 
When I talk of Whig and Tory, when I tell the 

Rebel story, 
To you the words are ashes, but to me they 're 

burning coals. 

5 I had heard the muskets' rattle of the April run- 
ning battle ; 
Lord Percy's hunted soldiers, I can see their red 
coats still; 

2. In December, 1776, Thomas Paine, whose Common Sense 
had so remarkable a popularity as the first homely expression of 
public opinion on Independence, began issuing a series of tracts 
called The Crisis, eighteen numbers of which appeared. The 
familiar words quoted by the grandmother must often have 
been heard and used by her. They begin the first number of 
The Crisis: "These are the times that try men's souls: the 
summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, 
shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it 
NOW, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." 

3. The terms PFAi^ and Tory were applied to the two parties 
in England who represented, respectivelj', the Whigs political 
and religious liberty, the Tories royal prerogative and ecclesias- 
tical authority. The names first came into use in 1679 in the 
struggles at the close of Charles II.'s reign, and continued in use 
until a generation or so ago, when they gave place to somewhat 
corresponding terms of Liberal and Conservative. At the break- 
ing out of the war for Independence, the Whigs in England 
opposed the measures taken by the crown in the management 
of the American colonies, while the Tories supported the crown. 
The names were naturally applied in America to tiie patriotic 
party, who were termed Whigs, and the loyalist party, termed 
Tories. The Tories in turn called the patriots rebels. 

5. The Lexington and Concord aiTair of April 19, 1775, 
when Lord Percy's soldiers retreated in a disordtirly manner 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 323 

But a deadly chill comes o'er nie, as the day looms 

up before me, 
When a thousand men lay bleeding on the slopes 

of Bunker's Hill. 

'Twas a peaceful summer's morning, when the 

first thing gave us warning 
lo Was the booming of the cannon from the river 

and the shore : 
"Child," says grandma, " Avhat 's the matter, 

what is all this noise and clatter ? 
Have those scalping Indian devils come to murder 

us once more ? " 

Poor old soul! my sides were shaking in the midst 

of all my quaking. 
To hear her talk of Indians when the guns began 

to roar: 
15 She had seen the burning village, and the 

slaughter and the pillage, 
When the Mohawks killed her father with their 

bullets through his door. 

Then I said, "Now, dear old granny, don't you 

fret and worry any, 
For I '11 soon come back and tell you whether this 

is work or play ; 

to Charlestown, annoyed on the waj' by the Americans who 
followed and accompanied them. 

16. The Mohawks, a formidable part of the Six Nations, were 
held in great dread, as they were the most cruel and warlike of 
all the tribes. In connection with the French they fell upon the 
frontier settlements during Queen Anne's war, early in the eight- 
eenth century, and committed terrible deeds, long remembered 
in New England households. 



324 HOLMES. 

There can't be mischief in it, so I won't be gone 
a minute " — 
20 For a minute then I started. I was gone the live- 
long day. 

No time for bodice-lacing or for looking-glass 
grimacing ; 

Down my hair went as I hurried, tumbling half- 
way to my heels ; 

God forbid your ever knowing, when there 's blood 
around her flowing, 

How the lonely, helpless daughter of a quiet 
household feels! 

25 In the street I heard a thumping ; and I knew it 

was the stumping 
Of the Coi'poral, our old neighbor, on that wooden 

leg he wore, 
With a knot of women round him, — it was lucky 

I had found him. 
So I followed with the others, and the Corporal 

marched before. 

They were making for the steeple, — the old sol- 
dier and his people; 
30 The pigeons circled round us as we climbed the 
creaking stair. 

Just across the narrow river — Oh, so close it 
made me shiver ! — 

Stood a fortress on the hill-top that but yesterday 
was bare. 

Not slow our eyes to find it; well we knew who 

stood behind it, 
Though the earthwork hid tliem from us, and the 

stubborn walls were dumb: 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 325 

35 Here were sister, wife, and mother, looking wild 
upon each other. 
And their lips were Avhite with terror as they said, 

THE HOUR HAS COMe! 

The morning slowly wasted, not a morsel had we 
tasted, 

And our heads were almost splitting with the can- 
nons' deafening thrill, 

When a figure tall and stately round the rampart 
strode sedately ; 
40 It was Prescott, one since told me ; he com- 
manded on the hill. 

Every woman's heart grew bigger when we saw 

his manly figure, 
With the banyan buckled round it, standing up so 

straight and tall ; 
Like a gentleman of leisure who is strolling out 

for pleasure. 
Through the storm of shells and cannon-shot he 

walked around the wall. 

45 At eleven the streets were swarming, for the red- 
coats' ranks were forming; 
At noon in marching order they were moving to 
the piers; 

40. Colonel William Prescott, who commanded the detach- 
ment which marched from Cambridge June 16, 1775, to fortify 
Breed's hill, was the grandfather of William Hickling Vrescott, 
the historian. He was in the field during the entire battle of 
the 17th in command of the redoubt. 

42. Banyan — a flowered morning gown which Prescott is said 
to have worn during the hot day, a good illustration of the an- 



326 HOLMES. 

How the bayonets gleamed- and glistened, as we 

looked far down, and listened 
To the trampling and the drum-beat of the belted 

grenadiers ! 

At length the men have started, with a cheer (it 
seemed faint-hearted), 
50 In their scarlet regimentals, with their knapsacks 
on their backs. 

And the reddening, rippling water, as after a sea- 
fight's slaughter, 

Round the barges gliding onward blushed like 
blood along their tracks. 

So they crossed to the other border, and again 

they formed in order ; 
And the boats came back for soldiers, came for 

soldiers, soldiers still: 
55 The time seemed everlasting to us women faint 

and fasting, — 
At last they 're moving, marching, marching 

proudly up the hill. 

We can see the bright steel glancing all along the 
lines advancing — 

Now the front rank fires a volley — they have 
thrown away their shot; 

For behind their earthwork lying, all the balls 
above them flying, 
60 Oar peo[)le need not hurry; so they wait and an- 
swer not. 

military appearance of tlie soldiers engaged. His nonchalant 
walk upon the parapets is also a historic fact, and was for the 
encouragement of the troops within the redoubt. 



GRANDMOTHERS STORY. 327 

Then the Corporal, our old cripple (he would 

swear sometimes and tipple), — 
He had heard the bullets whistle (in the old 

French war) before, — 
Calls out in words of jeering, just as if they all 

were hearing, — 
And his wooden leg thumps fiercely on the dusty 

belfry floor: — 

6.5 "Oh! fire away, ye villains, and earn King 

George's shillin's. 
But ye '11 waste a ton of powder afore a ' rebel ' 

falls; 
You may bang the dirt and welcome, they 're as 

safe as Dan 'I Malcolm 
Ten foot beneath the gravestone that you 've 

splintered with your balls!" 

62. Many of the officers as well as men on the American side 
had become familiarized with service through the old French 
war, which came to an end in 1763. 

67. Dr. Holmes makes the following note to this line: "The 
following epitaph is still to be read on a tall gravestone, stand- 
ing as yet undisturbed among the transplanted monuments of 
the dead in Copp's Hill Burial Ground, one of the three city 
[Boston] cemeteries which have been desecrated and ruined 
within my own remembrance : — 

" Here lies buried in a 

Stone Grave 10 feet deep, 

Capt. Daniel Malcolm Mercht. 

Wlio departed this Life 

October 23, 1769, 

Aged 44 years, 

A true son of Liberty, 

A Friend to the Publick, 

An Enetuy to oppression, 

And one of the foremost 

In opposing the Revenue Acts 

On America." 



328 HOLMES. 

In the hush of expectation, in the awe and trepida- 
tion 
70 Of the dread approaching moment, we are well- 
nigh breathless all ; 
Though the rotten bars are failing on the rickety 

belfry railing, 
We are crowding up against them like the waves 

against a wall- 
Just a glimpse (the air is clearer), they are nearer, 

— nearer, — nearer. 
When a flash — a curling smoke-wreath — then a 
crash — the steeple shakes — 
75 The deadly truce is ended; the tempest's shroud 
is rended; 
Like a morning mist it gathered, like a thunder- 
cloud it breaks ! 

O the sight our eyes discover as the blue-black 

smoke blows over! 
The red-coats stretched in windrows as a mower 

rakes his hay ; 
Here a scarlet heap is lying, there a headlong 

crowd is flying 
80 Like a billow that has bi-oken and is shivered into 

spray. 

Then we cried, " The troops are routed! they are 

beat — it can't be doubted! 
God be thanked, the fight is over!" — Ah! the 

grim old soldier's smile! 
"Tell us, tell us why you look so?" (we could 

hardly speak, we shook so), — 
"Are they beaten? Are they beaten? Are 

they beaten ? " — " Wait a while." 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 329 

85 O the trembling and the terror! for too soon we 

saw our error: 
They are baffled, not defeated; we have driven 

tliem back in vain; 
And the oohimns that were scattered, round the 

colors that were tattered, 
Toward the sullen silent fortress turn their belted 

breasts again. 

All at once, as we are gazing, lo the roofs of 

Charlestown blazing! 
90 They have fired the harmless village; in an hour 

it will be down ! 
The Lord in heaven confound them, rain his fire 

and brimstone round them, — 
The robbing, murdering red-coats, that would burn 

a peaceful town! 

They are marching, stern and solemn; we can see 
each massive column 

As they near the naked earth-mound with the 
slanting walls so steep. 
95 Have our soldiers got faint-hearted, and in noise- 
less haste departed? 

Are they panic-struck and helpless? Are they 
palsied or asleep? 

Now! the walls they 're almost under ! scarce a rod 
the foes asunder! 

Not a firelock flashed against them! up the earth- 
work they will swarm! 

But the words have scarce been spoken, when the 
ominous calm is broken, 
100 And a bellowing crash has emptied all the ven- 
geance of the storm! 



330 HOLMES. 

So again, with murderous slaughter, pelted back- 
wards to the water, 

Fly Pipjot's running heroes and the frightened 
braves of Howe; 

And we shout, " At last they 're done for, it 's 
their barges they have run for: 

They are beaten, beaten, beaten; and the battle's 
over now ! ' ' 

105 And we looked, poor timid creatures, on the rough 

old soldier's features, 
Our lips afraid to question, but he knew what we 

would ask: 
" Not sure," he said ; " keep quiet, — once more, 

I guess, they '11 try it — 
Here's damnation to the cut-throats!" then 

he handed me his flask. 

Saying, " Gal, you're looking shaky; have a drop 
of old Jamaiky ; 
no I'm afeard there 'II be more trouble afore the job 
is done " ; 

So I took one scorching swallow; dreadful faint I 
felt and hollow. 

Standing there from early morning when the fir- 
ing was begun. 

All through those hours of trial I had watched a 

calm clock dial. 
As the hands kept creeping, creeping, — they were 

ci-eeping round to four, 
115 When the old man said, "They're forming with 

their bagonets fixed for storming: 

102. The generals on the British side were Howe, Clinton, 
and Pigot. 



GRANDMOTHER'S STORY. 331 

It 's tlie tleatli-grip that 's a coming, — they will 
try the works once more." 

With brazen trumpets blaring, the flames behind 
them glaring, 

The deadly wall before them, in close array they 
come; 

Still onward, upward toiling, like a dragon's fold 
uncoiling, — 
120 Like the rattlesnake's shrill warning the reverber- 
ating drum! 

Over heaps all torn and gory — shall I tell the 

fearful story. 
How they surged above the breastwork, as a sea 

breaks over a deck; 
How, driven, yet scarce defeated, our worn-out 

men retreated, 
With their powder-horns all emptied, like the 

swimmers from a wreck? 

125 It has all been told and painted; as for me, they 

say I fainted. 
And the wooden-legged old Corporal stumped with 

me down the stair: 
When I woke from dreams affrighted the evening 

lamps were lighted, — 
On the floor a youth was lying; his bleeding breast 

was bare. 

And I heard through all the flurry, " Send for 
Warren! hurry! hurry! 

129. Dr. Joseph Warren, of equal note at the time as a medi- 
cal man and a patriot. He was a volunteer in the battle, and 
fell there, the most serious loss on the American side. 



332 HOLMES. 

130 Tell him here 's a soldier bleeding, and he '11 come 

and dress his wound! " 
Ah, we knew not till the morrow told its tale of 

death and sorrow, 
How the starlight found him stiffened on the dark 

and bloody ground. 

Who the youth was, what his name was, where the 

place from which he came was, 
Who had brought him from the battle, and had 

left him at our door, 
135 He could not speak to tell us; but 'twas one of our 

brave fellows. 
As the homespun plainly showed us which the 

dying soldier wore. 

For they all thought he was dying, as they gathered 

round him crying, — 
And they said, " Oh, how they '11 miss him! " and, 

" What will his mother do? " 
Then, his eyelids just unclosing like a child's that 

has been dozing, 
140 He faintly murmured, "Mother!" and — I 

saw his eyes were blue. 

— "Why, grandma, how you 're winking ! " — Ah, 
my child, it sets me thinking 

Of a story not like this one. Well, he somehow 
lived along ; 

So we came to know each other, and I nursed him 
like a — mother, 

Till at last he stood before me, tall, and rosy- 
cheeked, and strong. 

145 And we sometimes walked together in the pleasant 
summer weather; 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 333 

— " Please to tell us what his name was? " — Just 

your own, my little dear, — 
There 's his picture Copley painted : we became 

so well acquainted, 
That — in short, that's why I'm grandma, and 

you children all are here! " 



II. 

THE SCHOOL-BOY. 

[Phillips Academy at Andover, Massachusetts, 
was founded in 1778, by Judge Samuel Phillips, 
assisted by two uncles, who also established nearly 
at the time Phillips Exeter Academy, at Exeter, 
New Hamjishire. The centennial anniversary of 
the founding of Phillips Academy was celebrated 
at Andover, in June, 1878, and Dr. Holmes, who 
had been a boy in the school more than fifty years 
before, read the following poem.] 



These hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, 
Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near; 
AVith softer gales the opening leaves are fanned, 
With fairer hues the kindling flowers expand, 

147. John Singleton Copley was a portrait painter of celebrity 
who was born in America in 1737 and painted many famous 
portraits, which hang in private and public galleries in Boston 
and vicinity ehietly. He lived in England the latter half of his 
life, dj'ing there in 1815. 



334 HOLMES. 

5 The rose-bush reddens with the bhish of June, 
The groves are vocal with their minstrel's tune, 
The mighty elm, beneath whose arching shade 
The wandering children of the forest strayed. 
Greets the glad morning in its bridal dress, 

lo And spreads its arms the gladsome dawn to bless. 
Is it an idle dream that nature shares 
Our joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and our cares? 
Is there no summons, when at morning's call. 
The sable vestments of the darkness fall? 

15 Does not meek evening's low-voiced Ave blend 
With the soft vesper as its notes ascend? 
Is there no whisper in the perfumed air, 
When the sweet bosom of the rose is bare? 
Does not the sunshine call us to rejoice? 

20 Is there no meaning in the storm-cloud's voice ? 
No silent message when from midnight skies 
Heaven looks upon us with its myriad eyes? 

Or shift the mirror ; say our dreams diffuse 
O'er life's pale landscape their celestial hues, 

25 Lend heaven the rainbow it has never known, 
And robe the earth in glories not its own. 
Sing their own music in the summer breeze, 
With fresher foliage clothe the stately trees, 
Stain the June blossoms with a livelier dye 

30 And spread a bluer azure on the sky, — 

Blest be the power that works its lawless will 
And finds the weediest patch an Eden still; 
No walls so fair as those our fancies build, — 
No views so bright as those our visions gild ! 

35 So ran my lines, as pen and paper met. 

The truant goose-quill travelling like Planchette ; 

15. The vesper bells of the church-call to the prayers which 
begin Ave Maria, Hail, Mary. 
36. Planchette was a toy in the shape of a spherical triangle. 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 335 

Too ready servant, whose deceitful wa)'s 
Full man)' a slipshod line, alas! betrays; 
Hence of the rhyming thousand not a few 

40 Have builded worse — a great deal — than they 
knew. 
What need of idle fancy to adorn 
Our mother's birthplace on her birthday morn? 
Hers are the blossoms of eternal spring, 
From these green boughs her new-fledged birds 
take wing, 

45 These echoes hear their earliest carols sung. 
In this old nest the brood is ever young. 
If some tired wanderer, resting from his flight, 
Amid the gay young choristers alight, 
These gather round him, mark his faded plumes 

50 That faintly still the far-off grove perfumes. 
And listen, wondering if some feeble note 
Yet lingers, quavering in his weary throat: — 
I, whose fresh voice yon red-faced temple knew, 
What tune is left me, fit to sing to you ? 

55 Ask not the grandeurs of a labored song. 
But let my easy couplets slide along ; 

mounted upon three legs, which was greatly in vogue about ten 
years ago, on account of its supposed property of guiding the 
hand that rested upon it to write in obedience to another 
power. 
40. lu playful travesty of Emerson's line in The Problem: — 

" The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 
"Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
Himself from God he could not free ; 
He builded better than ho knew ; — 
The conscious stone to beauty grew." 

50. Still, i. e., distil. 

53. The old Phillips Academy building, now used for a gymna- 
sium, is of red brick. 



336 HOLMES. 

Much I could tell you that yon know too well; 
Much I remember, but I will not tell; 
Age brings experience; graybeards oft are wise, 
60 But oh! how sharp a youngster's ears and eyes! 

My cheek was bare of adolescent down 
When first I sought the Academic town: 
Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road, 
Big with its filial and parental load ; 

65 The frequent lulls, the lonely woods are past, 
The school-boy's chosen home is reached at last. 
I see it now, the same unchanging spot, 
The swinging gate, the little garden-plot, 
The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, 

70 The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door, 
The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill, 
The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still ; 
Two, creased with age, — or what I then called 

age, — 
Life's volume open at its fiftieth page ; 

75 One a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, sweet 

As the first snow-drop which the sunbeams greet; 
One the last nursling's; slight she was, and fair. 
Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn 

hair; 
Last came the virgin Hymen long had spared, 

80 AV^hose daily cares the grateful household shared, 
Strong, patient, humble ; her substantial frame 
Stretched the chaste draperies I forbear to name. 
Brave, but with cifort, had the school-boy come 
To the cold comfort of a stranger's home ; 

85 How like a dagger to my sinking heart 

Came the dry summons, "it is time to part; 

71. The rhytliiu shows the true pionuiiciatiou of decorous. 
An analogous word is sonorous. See note to p. 18, 1. 'J'J. 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 337 

" Good-by I " " Goo-ood-by ! " one fond maternal 

kiss. . . . 
Homesick as death ! Was ever pang like this ? . . . 
Too young as yet with willing feet to stray 
90 From the tame fireside, glad to get away, — 
Too old to let my watery grief appear, — 
And what so bitter as a swallowed tear! 

One figure still my vagrant thoughts pursue ; 
First boy to gi'eet me, Ariel, where are you? 
95 Imp of all mischief, heaven alone knows how 
You learned it all, — are you an angel now, 
Or tottering gently down the slope of years, 
Your face grown sober in the vale of tears ? 
Forgive my freedom if you are breathing still ; 
100 If in a happier world, I know you will. 

You were a school-boy — what beneath the sua 
So like a monkey ? I was also one. 

Strange, sure enough, to see what curious 
shoots 
The nursery raises from the study's roots! 
105 In those old days the very, very good 

Took up more room — a little — than they should; 
Something too much one's eyes encountered then 
Of serious youth and funeral-visaged men ; 
The solemn elders saw life's mournful half, — 
no Heaven sent this boy, whose mission was to laugh, 
Drollest of buffos, Nature's odd protest, 
A catbird squealing in a blackbird's nest. 

Kind, faithful Nature ! While the sour-eyed 
Scot, — 
Her cheerful smiles forbidden or forgot, — 
115 Talks only of his preacher and his ku'k, — 

94. Ariel is a tricksy sprite in Shakspere's The Tempest. The 
reference is to a son of James Murdock, with whom Holmes 
lived when he first went to Andover. 
22 



338 HOLMES. 

Hears five-hour sermons for his Sunday work, — 
Praying and fasting till his meagre face 
Gains its due length, the genuine sign of grace, — ' 
An Ayrshire mother in the land of Knox 
120 Her embryo poet in his cradle rocks; — 
Nature, long shivering in her dim eclipse, 
Steals in a sunbeam to those baby lips ; 
So to its home her banished smile returns, 
And Scotland sweetens with the song of Burns ! 

125 The morning came ; I reached the classic hall ; 
A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall ; 
Beneath its hands a printed line I read : 
Youth is life's seed-time; so the clock-face 

said : 
Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed, — 

130 Sowed — their wild oats, and reajoed as they had 
sowed. 
How all comes back! the upward slanting floor — 
The masters' thrones that flank the central door — 
The long, outstretching alleys that divide 
The rows of desks that stand on either side — 

135 The staring boys, a face to every desk, 

Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. 
Grave is the Master's look ; his forehead wears 
Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares ; 
Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 

140 His most of all whose kingdom is a school. 
Supreme he sits ; before the awful frown 
That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down ; 
Not more submissive Israel heard and saw 
At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. 

137. The master of Dr. Holmes's daj' was Dr. John Adams. 
139. An echo of Shakspere's line : — 

" Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." 

King Henry IV. Pt. II. Act III. Seen© 1. 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 339 

145 Less stern lie seems, wlio sits in equal state 

On the twin throne and shares the empire's 

weight ; 
Around his lips the subtle life that plays 
Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase ; 
A lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe, 

150 Pleasant when pleased; rough-handled, not so 
safe; 
Some tingling memoi'ies vaguely I recall, 
But to forgive him. God forgive us all ! 

One yet remains, whose well-remembered name 
Pleads in my grateful heart its tender claim ; 

155 His was the charm magnetic, the bright look 
That sheds its sunshine on the dreariest book ; 
A loving soul to every task he brought 
That sweetly mingled with the lore he taught ; 
Sprung from a saintly race that never could 

160 From youth to age be anything but good, 
His few brief years in holiest labors spent. 
Earth lost too soon the treasure heaven had lent. 
Kindest of teachers, studious to divine 
Some hint of promise in my earliest line, 

165 These faint and faltering words thou canst not 
hear 
Throb from a heart that holds thy memory dear. 

As to the traveller's eye the varied plain 
Shows through the window of the flying train, 

145. Rev. Jonathan Clement, D. D., of Norwich, Vt. ; for- 
merly of Woodstock. He married one of the Phillips family. 

146. There were two master's desks in little inclosures, facing 
the school and at equal distances from the centre. 

153. Kev. Samuel H. Stearns, at one time pastor of the Old 
South Church, Boston. He was a brother of President Stearns 
of Amherst College, and the family, in various members, was 
very intimately connected with Phillips Academy. 



340 HOLMES. 

A mingled landscape, rather felt than seen, 

170 A gravelly bank, a sudden flash of green, 

A tangled wood, a glittering stream that flows 
Through the cleft summit where the cliff once rose, 
All strangely blended in a hurried gleam. 
Rock, wood, waste, meadow, village, hillside, 
stream, — 

175 So, as we look behind us, life appears. 

Seen through the vista of our bygone years. 
Yet in the dead past's shadow-filled domain, 
■ Some vanished shapes the hues of life retain ; 
Unbidden, oft, before our dreaming eyes 

180 From the vague mists in memoi'y's path they rise. 
So comes his blooming image to my view. 
The friend of joyous days when life was new, 
Hope yet untamed, the blood of youth unchilled, 
No blank arrear of promise unfulfilled, 

185 Life's flower yet hidden in its sheltering fold, 
Its pictured canvas yet to be uni-olled. 
His the frank smile I vainly look to greet. 
His the warm grasp my clasping hand should meet; 
How would our lips renew their school-boy talk, 

190 Our feet retrace the old familiar walk ! 

For thee no more earth's cheerful morning shines 
Through the green fringes of thy tented pines; 
Ah me! is heaven so far thou canst not hear, 
Or is thy viewless spirit hovering near, 

195 A fair young presence, bright with morning's glow, 
The fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years ago ? 

Yes, fifty years, with all their circling suns, 
Behind them all my glance reverted runs ; 
Where now that time remote, its griefs, its joys, 

200 Where are its gray-haired men, its bright-haired 
boys? 

182. Judge Phinehas Barnes, of Portland, Maine. 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 341 

Where is the patriarch time could hardly tire, — ■ 
The good old, wrinkled, immemorial " squire"? 
(An honest treasurer, like a black-plumed swan, 
Not every day our eyes may look upon.) 

205 Where the tough champion who, with Calvin's 
sword , 
In wordy conflicts battled for the Lord ? 
Where the grave scholar, lonely, calm, austere, 
Whose voice like music charmed the listening ear, 
Whose light rekindled, like the morning star 

210 Still shines upon us through the gates ajar ? 
Where the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed man. 
Whose care-worn face my wondering eyes would 

scan, — 
His features wasted in the lingering strife 
With the pale foe that drains the student's life ? 

215 Where my old friend, the scholar, teacher, saint, 
Whose creed, some hinted, showed a speck of taint, 
He broached his own opinion, which is not 
Lightly to be forgiven or forgot ; 
Some riddle's point, — I scarce remember now, — 

220 Homoj, perhaps, where they said homo — ou. 
(If the unlettered greatly wish to know 
Where lies the difference betwixt oi and 0, 

202. Squire Farrar. 

205. Rev. Leonard Woods, D. D., then Professor of Theology 
in the Seminary. 

207. The reference is to Moses Stuart, who was Professor in 
the Theological School, and grandfather to Miss Elizabeth 
Stuart Phelps. 

211. Ebenezer Porter. 

215. James Murdock. 

222. There was an old scholastic (Hspute, turning upon a 
slight divergence in meaning between two Greek words which 
differed only by the vowels oi, and o ; two parties sprang up 
called respectively Homoiousians and Homousians. 



342 HOLMES. 

Those of the curious who have thne may search 
Among the stale conundrums of their church.) — 

225 Beneath his roof his peaceful life I shared, 
And for his modes of faith I little cared, — 
I, taught to judge men's dogmas by their deeds. 
Long ere the days of india-rubber creeds. 

Why should we look one common faith to find, 

230 Where one in every score is color-blind ? 

If here on earth they know not red from green, 
Will they see better into things unseen? 

Once moi'e to time's old grave yard I return 
And scrape the moss from memory's pictured 
urn. 

235 Who, in these days when all things go by steam, 
Recalls the stage-coach with its four-horse team ? 
Its sturdy driver, — who remembers him ? 
Or the old landlord, saturnine and grim, 
Who left our hill-top for a new abode 

240 And reared his sign-post farther down the road? 
Still in the waters of the dark Shawshine 
Do the young bathers splash and think they 're 

clean ? 
Do pilgrims find their way to Indian Ridge, 
Or journey onward to the far-off bridge, 

245 And bring to younger ears the story back 

Of the broad stream, the mighty Merrimack ? 
Are there still truant feet that stray beyond 
These circling bounds to Pomp's or Raggett's 

pond. 
Or where the legendary name recalls 

250 The forest's earlier tenant — ' ' Deer-jump Falls " ? 

230. Dr. B. Joy Jeffries in his recent work on Color-Blind- 
ness takes lines 229-232 for his motto. 

243. A singular formation like an embankment running for 
some distance through the woods near Andover. 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 343 

Yes, every nook these youthful feet explore, 
Just as our sires and grandsires did of yore; 
So all life's opening paths, where nature led 
Their fathers' feet, the children's children tread. 

255 Roll the round century's five score years away, 
Call from our storied past that earliest day 
When great Eliphalet (I can see him now, — 
Big name, big frame, big voice and beetling brow), 
Then young Eliphalet — ruled the rows of boys 

260 In homespun gray or old world corduroys, — 
And save for fashion's whims, the benches show 
The self-same youths, the very boys we know. 
Time works strange marvels ; since I trod the 
green 
And swung the gates, what wonders I have seen! 

265 But come what will, — the sky itself may fall — 
As things of course the boy accepts them all. 
The prophet's chariot, drawn by steeds of flame, 
For daily use our travelling millions claim ; 
The face we love a sunbeam makes our own ; 

270 No more the surgeon hears the sufferer's groan ; 
What unwrit histories wrapped in darkness lay 
Till shovelling Schliemann bared them to the day! 
Your Richelieu says, and says it well, my lord. 
The pen is (sometimes) mightier than the sword; 

275 Great is the goosequill, say we all; Amen I 
Sometimes the spade is mightier than the pen ; 
It shows where Babel's terraced walls were raised, 

257. Eliphalet Pearson, the first principal of the school, and 
in later life, professor in the Theological Seminary. 

274. " Beneath the rule of men entirely great 

The pen is mightier than the sword." 
Edward Bulwer Lytton's drama of Richelieu, Act II. Scene 2. 
277. Layard between 1845 and 1850 unearthed Nineveh. The 
results of his excavations are published in the very interesting 
work, Nineveh and its Hemains. 



SU HOLMES. 

The slabs that cracked when Nimrod's palace 

blazed, 
Unearths Mycenae, rediscovers Troy, — 

280 Calmly he listens, that immortal boy. 

A new Prometheus tips our wands with fire, 
A mightier Orpheus strains the whispering wire, 
Whose lightning thrills the lazy winds outrun 
And hold the hours as Joshua stayed the sun, — 

285 So swift, in truth, we hardly find a place 

For those dim fictions known as time and space. 
Still a new miracle each year supplies, — 
See at his work the chemist of the skies. 
Who questions Sirius in his tortured rays 

290 And steals the secret of the solar blaze. 

Hush ! while the window-rattling bugles play 
The nation's airs a hundred miles away! 
That wicked phonograph ! hark ! how it swears ! 
Turn it again and make it say its prayers ! 

295 And was it true, then, what the story said 
Of Oxford's friar and his brazen head ? 

279. Mycence, the ancient royal city of Argos, and Troy, the 
scene of the Iliad, have been uucovered bj' "shovelling Schlie- 
mann." 

281. Prometheus in Greek m3'thology made men of clay and 
animated them by means of fire which he stole from heaven. 
The reference is to the electric light. 

282. Orpheus's skill in music was so wonderful that he could 
make even trees and rocks follow him. The telephone and 
phonograph were just coming into common use when the poena 
was read. 

290. In the spectroscope. 

296. Friar Roger Bacon, who lived in the latter half of the 
thirteenth century was a scientific investigator, whom popular 
ignorance made to be a magician. He was said to have con- 
structed a brazen head, from which great things were to be ex- 
pected when it should speak, but the exact moment could not 
be known. While Bacon and another friar were asleep and an 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 345 

While wondering science stands, herself perplexed 
At each day's miracle, and asks " what next? " 
The immortal boy, the coming heir of all, 

300 Springs from his desk to " urge the flying ball," 
Cleaves with his bending oar the glassy waves, 
With sinewy arm the dashing current braves, 
The fame bright creature in these haunts of ours 
That Eton shadowed with her " antique towers." 

305 Boy ! Where is he ? the long-limbed youth in- 
quires, 
Whom his rough chin with manly pride inspires ; 
Ah, when the ruddy cheek no longer glows. 
When the bright hair is white as winter snows, 
When the dim eye has lost its lambent flame, 

310 Sweet to his ear will be his school-boy name! 
Nor think the difference mighty as it seems 
Between life's morning and its evening dreams ; 
Fourscore, like twenty, has its tasks and toys; 
In earth's wide school-house all are girls and boys. 

attendant was keeping watch, the brazen head spoke the words. 
Time is. The attendant thought that too commonplace a state- 
ment to make it worth while to wake his master. Time was, 
said the head, and then Time is past, and with that fell to the 
ground with a crash and never could be set up again. 

300. See Thomas Gray's On a Distant Prospect of Eton Col- 
le<je : — 

" Who foremost now delight to cleave, 
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? 

The captive linnet which enthral ? 
What idle progeny succeed 
To chase the rolling circle's speed, 

Or urge the flying ball? " 

304. See the ode just cited and beginning: — 

" Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
That crown the watery glade, 
Where grateful Science still adores 
Iler Henry "s holy shade." 



346 HOLMES. 

315 Brothers, forgive my wayward fancy. Who 
Can gness beforehand what his pen will do ? 
Too light my strain for listeners such as these, 
Whom graver thoughts and soberer speech shall 

please. 
Is he not here whose breath of holy song 

320 Has raised the downcast eyes of faith so long ? 
Are they not here, the strangers in your gates, 
For whom the wearied ear impatient waits, — 
The large-brained scholars whom their toils re- 
lease, — 
The bannered heralds of the Prince of Peace? 

325 Such was the gentle friend whose youth un- 
blamed 
In years long past our student-benches claimed; 
Whose name, illumined on the sacred page. 
Lives in the labors of his riper age; 
Such he whose record time's destroying march 

330 Leaves uneffaced on Zion's springing arch : 
Not to the scanty phrase of measured song. 
Cramped in its fetters, names like these belong; 
One ray they lend to gild my slender line, — 
Their praise I leave to sweeter lips than mine. 

335 Home of our sires, where learning's temple rose, 
AMiile yet they struggled with their banded foes, 

319. One of the visitors present was the Rev. Dr. Ray Pahner, 
author of the well-known hymn : — 

" My faith looks up to Thee." 

325. Dr. Holmes in a pleasant paper of reminiscences, Cinders 
from the Ashes has dwelt at length on his boyish recollections of 
Horatio Balch Hackett, a schoolmate, and known later as the 
learned Biblical scholar and student of Palestine explorations. 

329. The reference is to Edward Robinson, the pioneer of 
scientific travel in the Holy Land, one of whose best known 
discoveries was of the remains of an arch of an ancient bridge, 
thereafter called "Robinson's Arch." 



THE SCHOOL-BOY. 347 

As in the west thy century's sun descends, 
One parting gleam its dying radiance lends. 
Darker and deeper tliougli the shadows fall 

340 From the gray towers on Doubting Castle's wall, 
Though Pope and Pagan re-array their hosts, 
And her new armor youthful Science boasts. 
Truth, for whose altar rose this holy shrine, 
Shall fly for refuge to these bowers of thine ; 

345 No past shall chain her with its rusted vow. 
No Jew's phylactery bind her Christian brow, 
But faith shall smile to find her sister free, 
And nobler manhood draw its life from thee. 
Long as the arching skies above thee spread, 

350 As on thy groves the dews of heaven are shed. 
With currents widening still from year to year. 
And deepening channels, calm, untroubled, clear. 
Flow the twin streamlets from thy sacred hill — 
Pieria's fount and Siloam's shaded rill ! 

354. Pieria was the fabled home of the Muses and the birth- 
place of Orpheus; Siloam, a pool near Jerusalem, often men- 
tioned by the prophets and ia the New Testament, has passed 
into poetry through Milton's lines : — 

" Or if Sion-hill 
Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that flowed 
Fast by the oracle of God." 

Paradise Lost, Book I., 1. 10. 

And through the first two lines of Reginald Heber's hymn : — 
" By cool Siloam's shady rill 
How sweet the lily grows." 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was bom February 
22, 1819, at Elmwood, Cambridge, Massachu- 
setts, in the house which he still occupies. His 
early life was sjoeut in Cambridge, and he has 
sketched many of the scenes in it very delightfully 
in Cambridge Thirty Tears Ago, m his volume of 
Fireside Travels, as well as in his early poem, An 
Indian Summer Reverie. His father was a Unita- 
rian clergyman of Boston, and the family to which 
he belongs has had a strong representation in Mas- 
sachusetts. His grandfather, John Lowell, was an 
eminent jurist, the Lowell Institute of Boston owes 
its endowment to John Lowell, a cousin of the poet, 
and the city of Lowell was named after Francis 
Cabot Lowell, an uncle, who was one of the fb-st 
to begin the manufacturing of cotton in New Eng- 
land. 

Lowell was a student at Harvard, and was grad- 
uated in 1838, when he gave a class poem, and in 
1841 his first volume of poems, A Tear's Life, 
was jiublished. His bent from the beginning was 
more decidedly literary than that of any contempo- 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 349 

rary American poet. That is to say, the history 
and art of literature divided liis interest with the 
production of literature, and he carries the unusual 
gift of rare critical power, joined to hearty, sponta- 
neous creation. It may indeed be guessed that the 
keenness of judgment and incisiveness of wit wliich 
characterize his examination of literature have 
sometimes interfered with his jDoetic power, and 
made him liable to question his art when he would 
rather have expressed it unchecked. In connection 
with Robert Carter, a litterateur who has lately 
died, he began, in 1843, the publication of The 
Pioneer, a Literary and Critical Magazine, which 
lived a brilliant life of three months. A volume 
of poetry followed in 1844, and the next year he 
published Conversations on Some of the Old Poets, 
a book which is now out of print, but interesting as 
marking the enthusiasm of a young scholar, tread- 
ing a way then almost wholly neglected in America, 
and intimating a line of thought and study in which 
he has since made most noteworthy ventures. Au- 
otlier series of poems followed in 1848, and in the 
same year The Vision of Sir LaunfaL Perhaps it 
was in reaction from the marked sentiment of his 
poetry that he issued now ?ijeu d'esprit, A Fable 
fur Critics, in which he hit off, with a rough and 
ready wit, the characteristics of the writers of the 
day, not forgetting himself in these lines : — 

" There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to climb 
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme, 
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders, 
But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders; 



350 LOWELL. 

The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching 

Till he learns tlie distinction twixt singing and preaching; 

His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well 

But he 'd rather b}' half make a drmn of the shell, 

And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem, 

At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem." 

This, of course, is but a half serious portrait of 
himself, and it touches but a single feature ; others 
can say better that Lowell's ardent nature showed 
itself in the series of satirical poems which now 
made him famous. The Biglow Papers, written in a 
spirit of indignation and fine scorn, when the Mexi- 
can War was causing many Americans to blush 
with shame at the use of the country by a class for 
its own ignoble ends. The true patriotism which 
marked these and other of his early poems, burnt 
with a steady glow in after years, and illumined 
poems of which we shall speak presently. 

After a year and a half spent in travel, Lowell 
was appointed in 1855 to the Belles Lettres pro- 
fessorship, lately held at Harvard by Longfellow. 
When the Atlantic Monthly was established in 1857 
he was editor, and a year or two after relinquishing 
the post he assumed part editorship of the North 
American Review. In these two magazines, as also 
in Putnam's Monthly, he published poems, essays, 
and critical papers, which have been gathered into 
volumes. His prose writings, besides the volumes 
already mentioned, include two series of Among my 
Books, historical and critical studies chiefly in Eng- 
lish literature ; and My Study Windoivs, including 
with similar subjects observations of nature and 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 351 

contemporary life. During the war for the Union 
he published a second series of the Biglow Papers, 
in which with the wit and fun of the earlier series 
there was mingled a deeper strain of feeling and a 
larger tone of patriotism. The limitations of his 
style in these satires forbade the fullest expression 
of his thought and emotion, but afterward in a suc- 
cession of poems, occasioned by the dedication of 
Memorial Hall in Cambridge, the death of Agassiz, 
and the celebration of national anniversaries during 
the years 1875 and 1876, he sang in loftier, more 
ardent strains. The interest which readers have in 
Lowell is still divided between his rich, abundant 
prose, and his thoughtful, often passionate verse. 
The sentiment of his early poetry, always humane, 
has been enriched by larger experience, so that the 
themes which he has lately chosen demand and re- 
ceive a broad treatment, full of sympathy with the 
most generous instincts of the present, and built 
upon historic foundations. In 1877 he went to 
Spain as Minister Plenipotentiary. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 

[Author's Note. — According to the mythol- 
ogy of the Romancers, the San Greal, or Holy Grail, 
was the cup out of which Jesus Christ partook of 
the last supper with his disciples. It was brought 
into England by Joseph of Arimathea, and re- 
mained there, an object of pilgrimage and adora- 
tion, for many years in the keeping of his lineal 
descendants. It was incumbent upon those who had 
charge of it to be chaste in thought, word, and 
deed ; but one of the keepers, having broken this 
condition, the Holy Grail disappeared. From that 
time it was a favorite enterprise of the Knights of 
Arthur's court to go in search of it. Sir Galahad 
was at last successful in finding it, as may be read 
in the seventeenth book of the Romance of King 
Arthur. Tennyson has made Sir Galahad the sub- 
ject of one of the most exquisite of his poems. 

The plot (if I may give that name to anything 
so slight) of the following poem is my own, and, to 
serve its purposes, I have enlarged the circle of 
competition in search of the miraculous cup in such 
a manner as to include not only other persons than 
the heroes of the Round Table, but also a period 
of time subsequent to the date of King Arthur's 
reign, j 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 353 



PKELUDE TO PART FIRST. 

Over his keys the musing organist, 

Beginning doubtfully and far away, 
First lets his fingers wander as they list, 

And builds a bridge from Dreamland for his lay; 
Then, as the touch of his loved instrument 

Gives hope and fervor, nearer draws his theme, 
First guessed by faint auroral flushes sent 

Along the wavering vista of his dream. 



Not only around our infancy 
lo Doth heaven with all its splendors lie; 

Daily, wiih souls that cringe and plot, 
We iSinais climb and know it not. 

Over our manhood bend the skies; 
Against our fallen and traitor lives 
15 The great winds utter prophecies; 

With our faint hearts the mountain strives ; 
Its arms outstretched, the druid wood 

Waits with its benedicite; 
And to our age's drowsy blood 
20 Still shouts the inspiring sea. 

Earth gets its price for what Earth gives us ; 

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in, 
The priest hath his fee who comes and shrives us, 

We bargain for the graves we lie in ; 

9. In allusion to Wordsworth's 

" Ileaven lies about iis in our infancy," 
in his ode. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early 
Childhood. 

23 



354 LO WELL. 

25 At the Devil's booth are all things sold, 
Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold ; 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking: 
'T is heaven alone that is given away, 
30 'T is only God may be had for the asking; 
No price is set on the lavish summer; 
June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June? 
Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
35 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
And over it softly her warm ear lays : 
Whether we look, or whether we listen. 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; 
Every clod feels a stir of might, 
40 An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; 
The flush of life may well be seen 
Thrilling back over hills and vallej's ; 
45 The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. 
And there 's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 
50 Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, 
. And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, 

27. In the Middle Ages kings and noblemen had in their 
courts jesters to make sport for the company ; as ev6r3' one 
then wove a dress indicating his rank or occupation, so the jes- 
ter wore a cap hung with bells. The fool of Shakspere's plays 
is the king's jester at his best. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 355 

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and 
sings ; 
55 He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? 

Now is the high-tide of the year, 

And whatever of hfe hath ebbed away 

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer, 
60 Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; 

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, 

We are happy now because God wills it; 

No matter how barren the past may have been, 

'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
6$ We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; 

We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 

That skies are clear and grass is growing ; 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
70 That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flow- 
ing, 

That the river is bluer than the sky, 

That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 

And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
75 For other couriers we should not lack; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 

And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 

Warmed with the new wine of the year, 

Tells all in his lusty crowing! 

80 Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; 
Everything is hajjpy now. 

Everything is upward striving ; 
'T is as easy now for the heart to be true 
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, — 

85 'T is the natural way of living: 



356 LOWELL. 

Who knows wliithei* the clouds have fled? 

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; 
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed, 
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache ; 
90 The soul partakes of the season's youth, 

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe 
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, 
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. 
What wonder if Sir Launfal now 
95 Remembered the keeping of his vow? 



PART FIRST. 



" My golden spurs now bring to me, 
And bring to me my richest mail, 

For to-morrow I go over land and sea 
In search of the Holy Grail; 
100 Shall never a bed for me be sj^read, 

Nor shall a pillow be under my head. 

Till I begin my vow to keep; 

Here on the rushes will I sleep, 

And perchance there may come a vision true 
105 Ei"e day create the world anew." 

Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim, 
Slumber fell like a cloud on him, 

And into his soul the vision flew. 



The crows flapped over by twos and threes, 
no In the pool drowsed the cattle up to their knees, 
The little birds sang as if it were 
The one day of summer in all the year, 

And the very leaves seemed to sing on the trees ; 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 357 

The castle alone in the landscape lay 
115 Like an outpost of winter, dull and gray; 

'T was the proudest hall in the North Countree, 

And never its gates might opened be, 

Save to lord or lady of high degree ; 

Summer besieged it on every side, 
120 But the churlish stone her assaults defied; 

She could not scale the chilly wall, 

Though around it for leagues her pavilions tall 

Stretched left and right, 

Over the hills and out of sight; 
125 Green and broad was every tent. 
And out of each a murmur went 

Till the breeze fell off at nijrht. 



The drawbridge dropped with a surly clang, 
And through the dark arch a charger sprang, 

130 Bearing Sir Launfal, the maiden knight, 
In his gilded mail, that flamed so bright 
It seemed the dark castle had gathered all 
Those shafts the fierce sun had shot over its wall 
In his siege of three hundred summers long, 

135 And, binding them all in one blazing sheaf, 

Had cast them forth: so, young and strong, 
And lightsome as a locust-leaf. 
Sir Launfal flashed forth in his unscarred mail. 
To seek in all climes for the Holy Grail. 



140 It was morning on hill and sti'eam and tree, 
And morning in the young knight's heart; 
Only the castle moodily 
Rebuffed the gifts of the sunshine free, 
And gloomed by itself apart; 



358 LO WELL. 

145 The season brimmed all other things up 
Full as the rain fills the pitcher-plant's cup. 

V. 

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome 
gate, 
He was 'ware of a leper, crouched by the same, 
Who begged with his hand and moaned as he 
sate ; 
150 And a loathing over Sir Launfal came ; 

The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill. 
The flesh 'neath his armor 'gan shrink and 
crawl. 
And midway its leap his heart stood still 
Like a frozen waterfall; 
155 For this man, so foul and bent of stature, 
Rasped harshly against his dainty nature. 
And seemed the one blot on the summer morn, — 
So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. 



The leper raised not the gold from the dust: 
160 " Better to me the poor man's crust. 
Better the blessing of the poor. 
Though I turn me empty from his door; 
That is no true alms which the hand can hold; 
He gives nothing but worthless gold 
165 Who gives from a sense of duty; 
But he who gives but a slender mite. 
And gives to that which is out of sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty 
Which runs through all and doth all unite, — 
170 The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, 
The heart outstretches its eager palms. 
For a god goes with it and makes it store 
To the soul that was starving in darkness before. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 359 

PRELUDE TO PART SECOND. 

Down swept the chill wind from the mountain 
peak, 
175 From the snow five thousand summers old; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; 

It carried a shiver everywhere 
180 From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; 

The little brook heard it and built a roof 

'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars' frosty gleams 

He groined his arches and matched his beams; 
185 Slender and clear were his crystal spars 

As the lashes of light that trim the stars; 

He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of sight; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 
190 Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt, 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees 

Bending to counterfeit a breeze; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward grew ; 
195 Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and 
here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops 
200 And hung them thickly with diamond drops, 

174. Note the different moods that are indicated by the two 
preludes. The one is of June, the other of snow and winter. 
By these preludes the poet, like an organist, strikes a key which 
he holds in the subsequent part. 



360 LOWELL. 

That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, 

And made a star of every one: 

No mortal builder's most rare device 

Could match this winter-palace of ice; 
205 'T was as if evei'y image that mirrored lay 

In his depths serene through the summer day, 

Each fleeting shadow of earth and sky. 
Lest the happy model should be lost, 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
210 By the elfin builders of the frost. 

Within the hall are song and laughter. 

The cheeks of Christmas glow red and jolly, 
And sprouting is every corbel and rafter 

With lightsome green of ivy and holly ; 
215 Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide 
Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide ; 
The broad flame-pennons droop and flap 

And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 
Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, 
220 Hunted to death in its galleries blind; 
And swift little troops of silent sparks. 

Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, 
Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks 

Like herds of startled deer. 

203. The Empress of Russia, Catherine II., in a magnificent 
freak, built a palace of ice, which was a nine-da3's' wonder. 
Cowper has given a poetical description of it in The Task, Book 
V. lines 131-176. 

216. The Yule-log was anciently a huge log burned at the 
feast of Juul by our Scandinavian ancestors in honor of the god 
Thor. Juul-tid corresponded in time to Christmas tide, and 
when Christian festivities took the place of pagan, many cer- 
emonies remained. The great log, still called the Yule-log, was 
dragged in and burned in the fire-place after Thor had been 
forgotten. 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 361 

225 But the wiud without was eager and sharp, 
Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, 
And rattles and wrings 
The icy strings, 
Singing, in dreary monotone, 
230 A Christmas carol of its own, 

Whose burden still, as he might guess, 
Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" 
The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch 
As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, 
235 And he sat in the gateway and saw all night 
The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold. 
Through the window-slits of the castle old, 
Build out its iDiers of ruddy light 
Against the drift of the cold. 

PART SECOND. 



240 There was never a leaf on bush or tree, 

The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; 

The river was dumb and could not speak, 
For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; 

A single crow on the tree-top bleak 
245 From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; 

Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, 

As if her veins were sapless and old. 

And she rose up decrepitly 

For a last dim look at earth and sea. 



250 Sir Launfal turned from his own hard gate, 
For another heir in the earldom sate ; 
An old, bent man, worn out and frail. 
He came back from seeking the Holy Grail ; 



362 LOWELL. 

Little he recked of his earldom's loss, 
255 No more on his surcoat was blazoned the cross, 
But deep in his soul the sign he wore, 
The badge of the suffering and the poor. 



Sir Launfal's raiment thin and spare 
Was idle mail 'gainst the barbed air, 

260 For it was just at the Christmas time; 

So he mused, as he sat, of a sunnier clime, 
And sought for a shelter from cold and snow 
In the light and warmth of long-ago; 
He sees the snake-like caravan crawl 

265 O'er the edge of the desert, black and small, 
Then nearer and nearer, till, one by one, 
He can count the camels in the sun. 
As over the red-hot sands they pass 
To where, in its slender necklace of grass, 

270 The little spring laughed and leapt in the shade, 
And with its own self like an infant played, 
And waved its signal of palms. 



" For Christ's sweet sake, I beg an alms ; " — 
The happy camels may reach the spring, 
275 But Sir Launfal sees only the grewsome thing, 
The leper, lank as the rain-blanched bone, 
That cowers beside him, a thing as lone 
And white as the ice-isles of Northern seas 
In the desolate horror of his disease. 



280 And Sir Launfal said, — "I behold in thee 
An image of Him who died on the tree ; 
Thou also hast had thy crown of thorns, — 



THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. 363 

Thou also hast had the world's buffets and 

scorns, — 
And to thy life were not denied 
285 The wounds in the hands and feet and side : 
Mild Mary's Son, acknowledge me; 
Behold, through him, I give to Thee!" 



Then the soul of the leper stood up in his eyes 
And looked at Sir Launfal, and straightway he 
290 Remembered in what a haughtier guise 
He had flung an alms to leprosie, 
When he girt his young life up in gilded mail 
And set forth in search of the Holy Grail. 
The heart within him was ashes and dust; 
295 He parted in twain his single crust. 

He broke the ice on the streamlet's brink. 
And gave the leper to eat and drink, 
'T was a mouldy crust of coarse brown bread, 
'T was water out of a wooden bowl, — 
300 Yet with fine wheaten bread was the leper fed, 

And 't was red wine he drank with his thu-sty 
soul. 



As Sir Launfal mused with a downcast face, 
A light shone round about the place; 
The leper no longer crouched at his side, 
305 But stood before him glorified, 

Shining and tall and fair and straight 

As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate, — 

Himself the Gate whereby men can 

Eater the temple of God in Man. 



364 LOWELL. 

VIII. 

310 His words were shed softer than leaves from the 
pine, 
And they fell on Sir Launfal as snows on the 

brine, 
That mingle their softness and quiet in one 
With the shaggy unrest they float down upon; 
And the voice that was calmer than silence said, 

315 " Lo it is I, be not afraid ! 

In many climes, without avail, 
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail; 
Behold, it is here, — this cup which thou 
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now; 

320 This crust is my body broken for thee, 

This water His blood that died on the tree; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed, 
In whatso we share with another's need : 
Not what we give, but what we share, — 

325 For the gift without the giver is bare; 

Who gives himself with his alms feeds three, — 
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me." 

IX. 

Sir Launfal awoke as from a swound: — 
" The Gi'ail in my castle here is found! 
330 Hang my idle armor up on the wall, 
Let it be the spider's banquet-hall; 
He must be fenced with stronger mail 
Who would seek and find the Holy Grail." 



The castle gate stands open now, 
335 And the wanderer is welcome to the hall 
As the hangbird is to the elm-tree bough ; 
No longer scowl the turrets tall. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 365 

The Summer's long siege at last is o'er; 

Wheu the first poor outcast went in at the door, 
340 She entered with him in disguise, 

And mastered the fortress by surprise; 

There is no spot she loves so well on ground, 

She lingers and smiles there the whole year round; 

The meanest serf on Sir Launfal's land 
345 Has hall and bower at his command ; 

And there 's no poor man in the North Countree 

But is lord of the earldom as much as he. 



n. 

UNDER THE WILLOWS. 

Frank-hearted hostess of the field and wood, 
Gypsy, whose roof is every spreading tree, 
June is the pearl of our New England year. 
Still a surprisal, though expected long, 
5 Her coming startles. Long she lies in wait, 

Makes many a feint, peeps forth, draws coyly back. 
Then, from some southern ambush in the sky. 
With one great gush of blossom storms the world. 
A week ago the sparrow was divine ; 

10 The bluebird, shifting his light load of song 
From post to post along the cheerless fence. 
Was as a rhymer ere the poet come ; 
Bu\ now, O rapture! sunshine winged and voiced. 
Pipe blown through by the warm wild breath of the 
West 

15 Shepherding his soft droves of fleecy cloud, 
Gladness of woods, skies, waters, all in one, 



366 LOWELL. 

The bobolink has come, and, like the soul 
Of the sweet season vocal in a bird, 
Gurgles in ecstasy we know not what 
20 Save June ! Dear June ! Now God be praised for 
June, 

May is a pious fraud of the almanac, 

A ghastly parody of real Spring 

Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern 

wind; 
Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date, 

25 And, with her handful of anemones. 
Herself as shivery, steal into the sun, 
The season need but turn his hour-glass round. 
And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear, 
Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms, 

30 Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front 
With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard 
All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books, 
While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect, 
Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams, 

35 I take my May down from the happy shelf 

Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row, 

17. Br3'ant has a charming poem, Robert of Lincoln, in which 
the light-hearted song of the bird gets a homelier but no less de- 
lightful interpretation. See, also, Lowell's lines in Suthin' in 
the Pastoral Line, No. VI. of the second series of The Biglow 
Papers: — 

" 'Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o" the year, 
Gladness on wings, the bobolink is here ; 
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, 
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, 
Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, 
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air." 

28. In the fifth act of Shakspere's King Lear, Lear enters 
with Cordelia dead in his arms. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 367 

Waiting my choice to open with full breast, 
And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er denied 
In-doors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods 
40 Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year. 

July breathes hot, sallows the crispy fields, 
Curls up the wan leaves of the lilac-hedge, 
And every eve cheats us with show of clouds 
That braze the horizon's western rim, or hang 
45 Motionless, with heaped canvas drooping idly, 
Like a dim fleet by starving men besieged. 
Conjectured half, and half descried afar, 
Helpless of wind, and seeming to slip back 
Adown the smooth curve of the oily sea. 

50 But June is full of invitations sweet, 

Forth from the chimney's yawn and thrice-read 

tomes 
To leisurely delights and sauntering thoughts 
That brook no ceiling narrower than the blue. 
The cherry, drest for bridal, at my pane 

55 Brushes, then listens. Will he come ? The bee, 
All dusty as a miller, takes his toll 
Of powdery gold, and grumbles. What a day 
To sun me and do nothing ! Nay, I think 
]\Ierely to bask and ripen is sometimes 

60 The student's wiser business; the brain 
That forages all climes to line its cells. 
Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish, 
Will not distil the juices it has sucked 
To the sweet substance of pellucid thought, 

65 Except for him who hath the secret learned 
To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take 

44. I. e., that give a brazen hue and hardness to the western 
sky at sunset. 



368 LO WELL. 

The winds into liis pulses. Hush! 'tis he! 
My oriole, my glance of summer fire, 
Is come at last, and, ever on the watch, 

70 Twitches the pack-thread I had lightly wound 
About the bough to help his housekeeping, — 
Twitches and scouts by turns, blessing his luck, 
Yet fearing me who laid it in his way, 
Nor, more than wiser we in our affairs, 

75 Divines the providence that hides and helps. 
Heave., ho ! Heave, ho ! he whistles as the twine 
Slackens its hold ; once more, now ! and a flash 
Lightens across the sunlight to the elm 
Where his mate dangles at her cup of felt. 

80 Nor all his booty is the thread ; he trails 
My loosened thought with it along the air, 
And I must follow, would I ever find 
The inward rhyme to all this wealth of life. 

I care not how men trace their ancestry, 
85 To ape or Adam ; let them please their whim ; 
But I in June am midway to believe 
A tree among my far progenitors. 
Such sympathy is mine with all the race, 
Such mutual recognition vaguely sweet 
90 There is between us. Surely there are times 
When they consent to own me of their kin, 
And condescend to me, and call me cousin, 
Murmuring faint lullabies of eldest time, 
Forgotten, and yet dumbly felt with thrills 
95 Moving the lips, thouirh fruitless of the woi'ds. 
And I have many a life-long leafy friend. 
Never estranged nor careful of my soul, 
That knows I hate the axe, and welcomes me 
Within his tent as if I were a bird, 
Or other free companion of the earth, 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 369 

Yet undegenerate to the shifts of men. 
Arpong them one, an ancient willow, spreads 
Eight balanced limbs, springing at once all round 
His deep-ridged trunk with ujiward slant diverse, 

105 In outline like enormous beaker, fit 

For hand of Jotun, where, 'mid snow and mist 
He holds unwieldy revel. This tree, spared, 
I know not by what grace, — for in the blood 
Of our New World subduers lingers yet 

1 10 Hereditary feud with trees, they being 

(They and the red-man most) our fathers' foes, — 
Is one of six, a willow Pleiades, 
The seventh fallen, that lean along the brink 
Where the steep upland dips into the marsh, 

115 Their roots, like molten metal cooled in flowing, 
Stiffened in coils and runnels down the bank. 
The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers 
And glints his steely aglets in the sun. 
Or whitens fitfully with sudden bloom 

120 Of leaves breeze-lifted, much as when a shoal 
Of devious minnows wheel from where a pike 
Lurks balanced 'neath the lily-pads, and whirl 
A rood of silver bellies to the day. 

Alas! no acorn from the British oak 
125 'Neath which slim fairies tripping wrought those 
rings 
Of greenest emerald, wherewith fireside life 
Did with the invisible spirit of Nature wed, 

106. Jotun is a giant in the Scandinavian mythologj'. 

112. The Pleiades were seven daughters of Atlas and Pleione; 
to escape the hunter Orion, thej' begged to be changed in form, 
and were made a constellation in the heavens. Only six were 
visible to the naked eye, so the seventh was held to be a lost 
Pleiad, and several stories were told to account for the loss. 
24 



370 LO WELL. 

Was ever planted here! No darnel fancy 
Might choke one useful blade in Puritan fields; 

130 With horn and hoof the good old Devil came, 
The witch's broomstick was not contraband, 
But all that superstition had of fair, 
Or piety of native sweet, was doomed. 
And if there be who nurse unholy faiths, 

135 Fearing their god as if he were a wolf 

That snuffed round every home and was not seen, 
There should be some to watch and keep alive 
All beautiful beliefs. And such was that, — 
By solitary shepherd first surmised 

140 Under Thessalian oaks, loved by some maid 
Of royal stirp, that silent came and vanished. 
As near her nest the hermit thrush, nor dared 
Confess a mortal name, — that faith which gave 
A Hamadryad to each tree ; and I 

145 Will hold it true that in this willow dwells 
The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe. 
Of ancient Hospitality, long since. 
With ceremonious thrift, bowed out of doors. 

In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree 
150 While the blithe season comforts every sense. 
Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart. 
Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, 
Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow 
Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up 
155 And tenderly lines some last-year robin's nest. 

There muse I of old times, old hopes, old 

friends, — 
Old friends ! The writing of those words has borne 
My fancy backward to the gracious past, 
The generous past, when all was possible, 
160 For all was then untried; the years between 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 371 

Have taught some sweet, some bitter lessons, none 
Wiser than this, — to spend in all things else, 
But of old friends to be most miserly. 
Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, 

165 As to an oak, and precious more and more, 
Without deservingness or help of ours. 
They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, 
Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade. 
Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, 

170 Which Nature's milliners would scrape away; 
Most dear and sacred every withered limb! 
'Tis good to set them early, for our faith 
Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come. 
Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears. 

175 This willow is as old to me as life; 

And under it full often have I stretched. 
Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive. 
And gathering virtue in at every pore 
Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, 

180 Or was transfused in something to which thought 
Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost. 
Gone from me like an ache, and what remained 
Became a part of the universal joy. 
My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, 

185 Danced in the leaves; or, floating in the cloud, 
Saw its white double in the stream below; 
Or else, sublimed to purer ecstasy. 
Dilated in the broad blue over all. 
I was the wind that dappled the lush grass, 

190 The tide that crept with coolness to its roots, 
The thin-winged swallow skating on the air ; 
The life that gladdened everything was mine. 
Was I then truly all that I beheld? 
Or is this stream of being but a glass 

195 Where the mind see its visionary self, 



372 LO WELL. 

As, when the kingfisher flits o'er his bay, 
Across the river's hollow heaven below, 
His picture flits, — another, yet the same? 
But suddenly the sound of human voice 
200 Or footfall, like the di'op a chemist pours. 
Doth in opacous cloud precipitate 
The consciousness that seemed but now dissolved 
Into an essence rarer than its own. 
And I am narrowed to myself once more. 

205 For here not long is solitude secure. 
Nor Fantasy left vacant to her spell. 
Here, sometimes, in this paradise of shade, 
Rippled with western winds, the dusty Tramp, 
Seeing the treeless causey burn beyond, 

210 Halts to unroll his bundle of strange food 

And munch an unearned meal. I cannot help 
Liking this creature, lavish Summer's bedesman. 
Who from the almshouse steals when nights grow 

warm, 
Himself his large estate and only charge, 

215 To be the guest of haystack or of hedge. 
Nobly superior to the household gear 
That forfeits us our privilege of nature. 
I bait him with my match-box and my pouch. 
Nor grudge the uncostly sympathy of smoke, 

220 His equal now, divinely unemployed. 

Some smack of Robin Hood is in the man. 

Some secret league with wild wood-wandering 

things; 
He is our ragged Duke, our barefoot Earl, 
By right of birth exonerate from toil, 

225 Who levies rent from us his tenants all. 

And serves the state by merely being. Plere, 
The Scissors-grinder, pausing, doffs his hat. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS 373 

And lets the kind breeze, with its delicate 
fan, 

AVinnow the heat from out his dank gray hair, — 
230 A grimy Ulysses, a much-wandered man, 

Whose feet are known to all the populous ways, 

And many men and manners he hath seen, 

Not without fruit of solitary thought. 

He, as the habit is of lonely men, — 
235 Unused to try the temper of their mind 

In fence with others, — positive and shy, 

Yet knows to put an edge upon his speech, 

Pithily Saxon in unwilling talk. 

Him I entrap with my long-suffering knife, 
240 And, while its poor blade hums away in sparks, 

Sharpen my wit upon his gritty mind. 

In motion set obsequious to his wheel, 

And in its quality not much unlike. 

Nor wants my tree more punctual visitors. 

245 The children, they who are the only rich, 
Creating for the moment, and possessing 
Whate'er they choose to feign, — for still with 

them 
Kind Fancy plays the fairy godmother. 
Strewing their lives with cheap material 

250 For winged horses and Aladdin's lamps. 

Pure elfin-gold, by manhood's touch profane 
To dead leaves disenchanted, — long ago 
Between the branches of the tree fixed seats. 
Making an o'erturned box their table. Oft 

255 The shrilling girls sit here between school hours, 

230. Ulysses, the hero of Homer's Odyssey, receives the epi- 
thet much ivaiidered in the first line of that poem, an epithet 
often repeated, and is described as one who iiad seen many cities 
of men, and known manj' minds. 



374 LOWELL. 

And play at What 's my thought like ? while the 

boys, 
With whom the age chivalric ever bides, 
Pricked on by knightly spur of female eyes, 
Climb high to swing and shout on perilous boughs, 
260 Or, from the willow's armory equipped 

With musket dumb, green banner, edgeless sword, 
Make good the rampart of their tree-redoubt 
'Gainst eager British storming from below. 
And keep alive the tale of Bunker's Hill. 

265 Here, too, the men that mend our village ways, 
Vexing McAdam's ghost with pounded slate, 
Their nooning take ; much noisy talk they spend 
On horses and their ills; and, as John Bull 
Tells of Lord This or That, who was his friend, 

270 So these make boast of intimacies long 

With famous teams, and add large estimates. 
By competition swelled from mouth to mouth, 
Of how much they could draw, till one, ill pleased 
To have his legend overbid, retorts : 

275 ' ' You take and stretch truck-horses in a string 
From here to Long Wharf end, one thing I know, 
Not heavy neither, they could never draw, — 
Ensign's long bow!" Then laughter loud and 

long. 
So they in their leaf-shadowed microcosm 

280 Image the larger world ; for wheresoe'er 
Ten men are gathered, the observant eye 
Will find mankind in little, as the stars 
Glide up and set, and all the heavens revolve 
In the small welkin of a drop of dew. 

266. Macadamized roads have kept alive the name of Sir John 
Loudon Macadam, who introduced the mode at the beginning 
of this century. 



UNDER THE WILLOWS. 375 

285 I love to enter pleasure by a postern, 

Not the broad popular gate that gulps tbe mob ; 
To find my theatres in roadside nooks, 
Where men are actors, and suspect it not ; 
Where Nature all unconscious works her will, 

290 And every passion moves with human gait. 
Unhampered by the buskin or the train. 
Hating the crowd, where we gregarious men 
Lead lonely lives, I love society, 
Nor seldom find the best with simple souls 

295 Unswerved by culture from their native bent, 
The ground we meet on being primal man 
And nearer the deep bases of our lives. 

But oh, half heavenly, earthly half, my soul. 
Canst thou from those late ecstasies descend, 

300 Thy lips still wet with the miraculous wine 
That transubstantiates all thy baser stuff 
To such divinity that soul and sense. 
Once more commingled in their source, are lost, — 
Canst thou descend to quench a vulgar thirst 

305 With the mere dregs and rinsings of the world? 
Well, if my nature find her pleasure so, 
I am content, nor need to blush ; I take 
My little gift of being clean from God, 
Not haggling for a better, holding it 

310 Good as was ever any in the world, 
My days as good and full of miracle. 
I pluck my nutriment from any bush. 
Finding out poison as the first men did 
By tasting and then suffering, if I must. 

315 Sometimes my bush burns, and sometimes it is 
A leafless wilding shivering by the wall ; 
But I have known when winter barberries 
315. As did Moses's bush. 



376 LOWELL. 

Pricked the effeminate palate with surprise 
Of savor whose mere harshness seemed divine. 

320 Oh, benediction of the higher mood 

And human-kindness of the lower! for both 
I will be grateful while I live, nor question 
The wisdom that hath made us what we are, 
With such large range as from the ale-house bench 

325 Can reach the stars and be with both at home. 
Tliey tell us we have fallen on prosy days, 
Condemned to glean the leavings of earth's feast 
Where gods and heroes took delight of old ; 
But though our lives, moving in one dull round 

330 Of repetition infinite, become 

Stale as a newspaper once read, and though 
History herself, seen in her workshop, seem 
To have lost the art that dyed those glorious panes, 
Rich with memorial shapes of saint and sage, 

335 That pave with splendor the Past's dusky aisles, — 
Panes that enchant the light of common day 
With colors costly as the blood of kings, 
Till with ideal hues it edge our thought, — 
Yet while the world is left, while nature lasts, 

340 And man the best of nature, there shall be 

Somewhei-e contentment for these human hearts, 
Some freshness, some unused material 
For wonder and for song. I lose myself 
In other ways where solemn guide-posts say, 

345 This way to Knowledge., This way to Repose, 
But here, here only, I am ne'er betrayed, 
For every by-path leads me to my love. 

God's passionless reformers, influences. 

That purify and heal and are not seen, 

350 Shall man say whence your virtue is, or how 



UNDER THE WILLOWS: 377 

Ye make medicinal the wayside weed ? 
I know that sunshine, through whatever rift 
How shaped it matters not, upon my walls 
Paints discs as perfect-rounded as its source, 
355 And, like its antitype, the ray divine, 
However finding entrance, perfect still, 
Repeats the image unimpaired of God. 

We, who by shipwreck only find the shores 
Of divine wisdom, can but kneel at first ; 

360 Can but exult to feel beneath our feet. 

That long stretched vainly down the yielding 

deeps, 
The shock and sustenance of solid earth ; 
Inland afar we see what temples gleam 
Through immemorial stems of sacred groves, 

365 And we conjecture shining shapes therein; 
Yet for a space we love to wonder here 
Among the shells and sea-weed of the beach. 

So mused I once within my willow-tent 
One brave June morning, when the bluff north- 
west, 
370 Thrusting aside a dank and snuffling day 
That made us bitter at our neighbors' sins, 
Brimmed the great cup of heaven with sparkling 

cheer 
And roared a lusty stave ; the sliding Charles, 
Blue toward the west, and bluer and more blue, 
375 Living and lustrous as a woman's eyes 

Look once and look no more, with southward 

curve 
Ran crinkling sunniness, like Helen's hair 
Glimpsed in Elysium, insubstantial gold ; 
From blossom-clouded orchards, far away 



378 LO WELL. 

380 The bobolink tinkled ; the deep meadows flowed 
With multitudinous pulse of light and shade 
Against the bases of the southern hills, 
While here and there a drowsy island rick 
Slept and its shadow slept ; the wooden bridge 

385 Thundered, and then was silent; on the roofs 
The sun- warped shingles rippled with the heat ; 
Summer on field and hill, in heart and brain. 
All life washed clean in this hisb tide of June. 



ni. 

UNDER THE OLD ELM. 

[Near Cambridge Common stands an old elm, 
having at its base a stone with the inscription, 
" Under this tree Washington first took command 
of the American Army, July od, 1775." Upon the 
one hundredth anniversary of this day the citizens 
of Cambridge held a celebration under the tree, and 
Mr. Lowell read the following poem.] 

I. 

1. 
Words pass as wind, but where great deeds were 

done 
A power abides transfused from sire to son : 
The boy feels deeper meanings thrill his ear. 
That tingling through his pulse life-long shall run, 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 379 

5 With sure impulsion to keep honor clear, 

When, pointing down, his father whispers, " Here, 
Here, where we stand, stood he, the purely Great, 
Whose soul no siren passion could unsphere, 
Then nameless, now a power and mixed with 
fate." 

10 Historic town, thou boldest sacred dust. 
Once known to men as pious, learned, just, 
And one memorial pile that dares to last; 
But Memory greets with reverential kiss 
No spot in all thy circuit sweet as this, 

15 Touched by that modest glory as it past. 
O'er which yon elm hath piously displayed 
These hundred years its monumental shade. 

2. 

Of our swift passage through this scenery 
Of life and death, more durable than we, 

20 What landmark so congenial as a tree 
Repeating its green legend every spring, 
And, with a yearly ring. 
Recording the fair seasons as they flee. 
Type of our brief but still-renewed mortality ? 

25 We fall as leaves: the immortal trunk remains, 
Builded with costly juice of hearts and brains 
Gone to the mould now, whither all that be 
Vanish returnless, yet are procreant still 
In human lives to come of good or ill, 

30 And feed unseen the roots of Destiny. 

12. Memorial Hall, built by the alumni of Harvard, in 
memory of those who fell in the war for union, a building of 
more serious thought than any in Cambridge, and among the 
few in the country built to endure. 



380 LOWELL. 

n. 

1. 

Men's monuments, grown old, forget their names 
They should eternize, but the place 
Where shining souls have passed imbibes a grace 
Beyond mere earth ; some sweetness of their 
fames 

35 Leaves in the soil its unextinguished trace, 
Pungent, pathetic, sad with nobler aims, 
That penetrates our lives and heightens them or 

shames. 
This insubstantial world and fleet 
Seems solid for a moment when we stand 

40 On dust ennobled by heroic feet 

Once mighty to sustain a tottering land. 

And mighty still such burthen to upbear, 

Nor doomed to tread the path of things that merely 

were : 
Our sense, refined with virtue of the spot, 

45 Across the mists of Lethe's sleepy stream 
Recalls him, the sole chief without a blot. 
No more a pallid image and a dream, 
But as he dwelt with men decorously supreme. 



Our grosser minds need this terrestial hint 
50 To raise long-buried days from tombs of print: 
" Hei'e stood he," softly we repeat, 
And lo, the statue shrined and still 
In that gray minster-front we call the Past, 
Feels in its frozen veins our pulses thrill, 
55 Breathes living air and mocks at Death's deceit. 
It warms, it stirs, comes down to us at last, 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 381 

Its features human with familiar light, 

A man, beyond the historian's art to kill, 

Or sculptor's to efface with patient chisel-blight. 

3. 

60 Sure the dumb earth hath memory, for naught 
Was Fancy given, on whose enchanted loom 
Present and Past commingle, fruit and bloom 
Of one fair bough, inseparably wrought 
Into the seamless tapestry of thought. 

65 So charmed, with undeluded eye we see 
In history's fragmentary tale 
Bright clews of continuity. 
Learn that high natures over Time i)revail, 
And feel ourselves a link in that entail 

70 That binds all ages past with all that are to be. 



in. 
1. 

Beneath our consecrated elm 
A century ago he stood, 
Famed vaguely for that old fight in the wood 
Whose red surge sought, but could not overwhelm 
75 The life foredoomed to wield our rough-hewn 
helm : — 
From colleges, where now the gown 

73. Referring to Braddock's defeat, when Washington wrote 
to his brothel': "By the all-powerful dispensations of Provi- 
dence I have been protected beyond all human probability or 
expectation; for I had four bullets through my coat, and two 
horses shot under me, yet I escaped unhurt, although death was 
levelling my companions on every side of me." 

76. Study in Cambridge was suspended, the buildings used 
as barracks, and the students sent to Concord. 



382 LO WELL. 

To arms had yielded, from the town, 

Our rude self-summoned levies flocked to see 

The new-come chiefs and wonder which was he. 

80 No need to question long; close-lipped and tall. 
Long trained in murder-brooding forests lone 
To bridle others' clamors and his own, 
Firmly erect, he towered above them all, 
The incarnate discipline that was to free 

85 With iron curb that armed democracy. 



A motley rout was that which came to stare, 
In raiment tanned by years of sun and storm, 
Of every shape that was not uniform. 
Dotted with regimentals here and there; 

90 An army all of captains, used to pray 

And stiff in fight, but serious drill's despair, 
Skilled to debate their orders, not obey; 
Deacons were there, selectmen, men of note 
In half-tamed hamlets ambushed round with woods, 

95 Keady to settle Freewill by a vote, 
But largely liberal to its private moods; 
Prompt to assert by manners, voice, or pen. 
Or ruder arms, their rights as Englishmen, 
Nor much fastidious as to how and when: 
100 Yet seasoned stuff and fittest to create 
A thought-staid army or a lasting state: 
Haughty they said he was, at first; severe; 
But owned, as all men own, the steady hand 
Upon the bridle patient to command,' 

86. The letters of Washington and of other generals in the 
early part of the Revolutionarj' war, bear repeated witness to the 
undisciplined character of the troops. " I found a mixed multi- 
tude of people here," writes Washington, July 27th, "under 
very little discipline, order, or government." 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 383 

105 Prized, as all prize, tlie justice pure from fear, 

And learned to honor first, then love him, then 

revere. 
Such power there is in clear-eyed self-restraint 
And purpose clean as light from every selfish taint. 



Musing beneath the legendary tree, 
no The years between furl off: I seem to see 

The sun-flecks, shaken the stirred foliage through, 
Dapple with gold his sober buff and blue 
And weave prophetic aureoles round the head 
That shines our beacon now nor darkens with the 
dead. 
115 O man of silent mood, 

A stranger among strangers then. 
How art thou since renowned the Great, the Good, 
Familiar as the day in all the homes of men! 
The winged years, that winnow praise and blame, 
120 Blow many names out: they but fan to flame 
The self-renewing splendors of thy fame. 



IV. 



How many subtlest influences unite, 
With spiritual touch of joy or pain. 
Invisible as air and soft as light, 
125 To body forth that image of the brain 

112. The American colors in the Revolution were buff and 
blue. Fox wore them in Parliament, as did Burke also on occa- 
sion. There is discussion as to the origin of the colors, for 
which see Stanhope's Miscdlanies, First Series, pp. 116-122, 
and Proc. Mass. Hist. Soc. Jan. 1859, pp. 149-151. 



384 LO WELL. 

We call our Country, visionary shape, 

Loved more than woman, fuller of fire than wine, 

Whose charm can none define, 

Nor any, though he flee it, can escape! 

130 All party-colored threads the weaver Time 
Sets in his web, now trivial, now sublime. 
All memories, all forebodings, hopes and fears, 
Mountain and river, forest, prairie, sea, 
A hill, a rock, a homestead, field, or tree, 

135 The casual gleanings of unreckoned years, 
Take goddess-shape at last and there is She, 
Old at our birth, new as the springing hours, 
Shrine of our weakness, fortress of our powers. 
Consoler, kindler, peerless 'mid her peers, 

140 A force that 'neath our conscious being stirs, 
A life to give ours permanence, when we 
Are borne to mingle our poor earth with hers, 
And all this glowing world goes with us on our 
biers. 

2. 

Nations are long results, by ruder ways 
145 Gathering the might that warrants length of days; 
They may be pieced of half-reluctant shares 
Welded by hammer-strokes of broad-brained kings, 
Or from a doughty people grow, the heirs 
Of wise traditions widening cautious rings; 
150 At best they are computable things, 

A strength behind us making us feel bold 
In right, or, as may chance, in wrong; 
Whose force by figures may be summed and told. 
So many soldiers, ships, and dollars strong, 
155 And we but drops that bear compulsory part 
In the dumb tlu'ob of a mechanic heart; 
But Country is a shape of each man's mind 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 385 

Sacred from definition, unconfined 

By the cramped walls where daily drudgeries 
grinds 
l6o An inward vision, yet an outward birth 

Of sweet familiar heaven and earth; 

A brooding Presence that stirs motions blind 

Of wings within our embryo being's shell 

That wait but her completer spell 
165 To make us eaglc-natured, fit to dare 

Life's nobler spaces and untarnished air. 

3. 

You, who hold dear this self-conceived ideal, 
Whose faith and works alone can make it real, 
Bring all your fairest gifts to deck her shrine 

170 Who lifts our lives away from Thine and Mine 
And feeds the lamp of manhood more divine 
With fragrant oils of quenchless constancy. 
When all have done their utmost, surely he 
Hath given the best who gives a character 

175 Erect and constant, which nor any shock 
Of loosened elements, nor the forceful sea 
Of flowing or of ebbing fates, can stir 
From its deep bases in the living rock 
Of ancient manhood's sweet security: 

180 And this he gave, serenely far from pride 

As baseness, boon with prosperous stars allied, 
Part of what nobler seed shall in our loins abide. 



No bond of men as common pride so strong. 
In names time-filtered for the lips of song, 
185 Still operant, with the primal Forces bound, 
Whose currents, on their spiritual round. 
Transfuse our mortal will nor are gainsaid; 
25 



386 LO WELL. 

These are their arsenals, these the exhaustless 

mines 
That give a constant heart in great designs; 
190 These are the stuff whereof such dreams are made 
As make heroic men : thus surely he 
Still holds in place the massy blocks he laid 
'Neath our new frame, enforcing soberly 
The self-control that makes and keeps a people 
free. 

V. 



195 Oh for a drop of that Cornelian ink 

Which gave Agricola dateless length of days, 
To celebrate him fitly, neither swerve 
To phrase unkempt, nor pass discretion's brink 
With him so statue-like in sad reserve, 

200 So diffident to claim, so forward to deserve ! 
Nor need I shun due influence of his fame 
Who, mortal among mortals, seemed as now 
The equestrian shape with unimpassioned brow, 
That paces silent on through vistas of acclaim. 



205 What figure more immovably august 

Tlian that grave strength so patient and so pure, 
Calm in good foi'tune, when it wavered, sure, 
That mind serene, impenetrably just, 

190. A reminiscence of Shakspere's lines, — 

We are such stuff 
As dreams are made on, and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep. 

The Tempest, Act IV. Scene 1. 

195. It was Caius Cornelius Tacitus wfio wrote in imperish- 
able words the life of Agricola. 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 387 

Modelled on classic lines so simple they endui'e? 

210 That soul so softly radiant and so white 

The track it left seems less of fire than light, 
Cold but to such as love distemperature ? 
And if pure light, as some deem, be the force 
That drives rejoicing planets on their course, 

215 Why for his power benign seek an impurer source ? 
His was the true enthusiasm that burns long, 
Domestically bright, 
Fed from itself and shy of human sight. 
The hidden force that makes a lifetime strong, 

220 And not the short-lived fuel of a song. 
Passionless, say you ? What is passion for 
fiut to sublime our natures and control 
To front heroic toils with late return. 
Or none, or such as shames the conqueror? 

225 That fire was fed with substance of the soul 
And not with holiday stubble, that could burn, 
Unpraised of men who after bonfires run, 
Through seven slow years of unadvancing war, 
Equal when fields were lost or fields were won, 

230 With breath of popular apjjlause or blame, 

Nor fanned nor damped, unquenchably the same, 
Too inward to be reached by flaws of idle fame. 

3. 

Soldier and statesman, rai-est unison; 
High-poised example of great duties done 

235 Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn 
As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; 
Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, 
But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, 
Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, 

240 Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; 
239. At Valley Forge. 



388 LOWELL. 

Modest, yet firm as Nature's self ; unblamed 
Save by the men his nobler temper shamed ; 
Never seduced through show of present good 
By other than unsetting lights to steer 

245 New- trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast 
mood 
More steadfast, far from rashness as from fear ; 
Rigid, but with himself first, grasping still 
In swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will; 
Not honored then or now because he wooed 

250 The popular voice, but that he still withstood ; 
Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one 
Who was all this and ours, and all men's, — 
Washington. 

4. 

Minds strong by fits, irregularly great, 
That flash and darken like revolving lights, 

255 Catch more the vulgar eye unschooled to wait 
On the long curve of patient days and nights 
Bounding a whole life to the circle fair 
Of orbed fulfilment; and this balanced soul, 
So simple in its grandeur, coldly bare 

260 Of draperies theatric, standing there 
In perfect symmetry of self-control. 
Seems not so great at first, but greater grows 
Still as we look, and by experience learn 
How grand this quiet is, how nobly stern 

265 The discijiline that wrought through life-long 
throes 
That energetic passion of repose. 

5. 
A nature too decorous and severe, 
Too self-respectful in its griefs and joys, 
267. See note to The School-Boy, p. 336, 1. 71. 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 389 

For ardent girls and boys 
270 Who find no genius in a mind so clear 

That its grave depths seem obvious and near, 
Nor a soul great that made so little noise. 
They feel no force in that calm-cadenced phrase, 
The habitual full-dress of his well-bred mind, 
275 That seems to pace the minuet's courtly maze 

And tell of ampler leisures, roomier length of 

days. 
His firm-based brain, to self so little kind 
That no tumultuary blood could blind. 
Formed to control men, not amaze, 
280 Looms not like those that borrow height of haze: 
It was a world of statelier movement then 
Than this we fret in, he a denizen 
Of that ideal Rome that made a man for men. 



VI. 



The longer on this earth we live 
285 And weigh the various qualities of men, 
Seeing how most are fugitive. 
Or fitful gifts, at best, of now and then, 
Wind-wavered corpse-lights, daughters of the fen, 
The more we feel the high stern-featured beauty 
290 Of plain devotedness to duty, 

Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise, 

But finding amplest recompense 

For life's ungarlanded expense 

In work done squarely and unwasted days. 

288. The daughters of the fen, — will-o'-the-wisps. The 
Welsh call the same phenomenon corjjse-lights, because it was 
supposed to forbode death, and to show the road that the corpse 
would take. 



390 LOWELL. 

295 For this we honor him, that he could know 
How sweet the service and how free 
Of her, God's eldest daughter here below, 
And choose in meanest raiment which was she. 

2. 

Placid completeness, life without a fall 
300 From faith or highest aims, truth's breachless 

wall, 
Surely if any fame can bear the touch. 
His will say " Here! " at the last trumpet's call, 
The unexpressive man whose life expressed so 

much. 

vn. 
1. 

Never to see a nation born 

305 Hath been given to mortal man, 

Unless to those who, on that summer morn, 
Gazed silent when the great Virginian 
Unsheathed the sword whose fatal flash 
Shot union through the incoherent clash 

310 Of our loose atoms, crystallizing them 
Around a single will's unpliant stem, 
And making purpose of emotion rash. 
Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb, 
Nebulous at first but hardening to a star, 

315 Through mutual share of sunburst and of gloom, 
The common faith that made us what we are. 

2. 

That lifted blade transformed our jangling clans, 
Till then provincial, to Americans, 
And made a unity of wildering plans; 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 391 

320 Here was the doom fixed: here is marked the date 
When the New ^Vorld awoke to man's estate, 
Burnt its last ship and ceased to look behind: 
Nor thoughtless was the choice ; no love or hate 
Could from its poise move that deliberate mind, 

325 Weighing between too early and too late 
Those pitfalls of the man refused bj Fate: 
His was the impartial vision of the great 
Who see not as they wish, but as tJiey find. 
He saw the dangers of defeat, nor less 

330 The incomputable perils of success; 

The sacred past thrown by, an empty rind ; 
The future, cloud-land, snare of prophets blind; 
The waste of war, the ignominy of peace ; 
On either hand a sullen rear of woes, 

335 Whose garnered lightnings none could guess, 

Piling its thunder-heads and muttering " Cease!" 
Yet drew not back his hand, but bravely chose 
The seeming-desperate task whence our new nation 
rose. 

3. 

A noble choice and of immortal seed! 

340 Nor deem that acts heroic wait on chance 
Or easy were as in a boy's romance; 
The man's whole life preludes the single deed 
That shall decide if his inheritance 
Be with the sifted few of matchless breed, 

345 Our race's sap and sustenance, 

Or with the unmotived herd that only sleep and 

feed. 
Choice seems a thing inditferent; thus or so. 
What matters it? The Fates with mocking face 
Look on inexorable, nor seem to know 

350 Where the lot lurks that gives life's foremost 
place. 



392 LO WELL. 

Yet Duty's leaden casket holds it still, 
And but two ways are offered to our will, 
Toil with rare triumph, ease with safe disgrace, 
The problem still for us and all of human race. 

355 Pie chose, as men choose, where most danger 
showed, 
Nor ever faltered 'neath the load 
Of petty cares, that gall great hearts the most, 
But kept right on the strenuous up-hill road, 
Strong to the end, above complaint or boast : 

360 The popular tempest on his rock-mailed coast 
Wasted its wind-borne spray, 
The noisy marvel of a day. 
His soul sate still in its uustormed abode. 



VIII. 

Virginia gave us this imperial man 
365 Cast in the massive mould 

Of those high-statured ages old 

Which into grander forms our mortal metal ran; 

She gave us this unblemished gentleman: 

What shall we give her back but love and praise 
370 As in the dear old unestranged days 

Before the inevitable wrong began ? 

Mother of States and undiminished men, 

Thou gavest us a country, giving him. 

And we owe alway what we owed thee then : 
375 The boon thou wouldst have snatched from us 
again 

Shines as before with no abatement dim. 

A great man's memory is the only thing 

351. See Shakspere's play of The, Merchant of Venice with 
its three caskets of gold, silver, and lead, from which the suitors 
of Portia were to choose fate. 



UNDER THE OLD ELM. 393 

With influence to outlast the present whim 

And bind us as when here he knit our golden ring. 

380 All of him that was subject to the hours 
Lies in thy soil and makes it part of ours: 
Across more recent graves, 
Where unresentful Nature waves 
Her pennons o'er the shot-ploughed sod, 

3S5 Proclaiming the sweet Truce of God, 

We from this consecrated plain stretch out 
Our hands as free from afterthought or doubt 
As here the united North 
Poured her embrowned manhood forth 

390 In welcome of our saviour and thy son. 

Through battle we have better learned thy worth, 
The long- breathed valor and undaunted will. 
Which, like his own, the day's disaster done, 
Could, safe in manhood, suffer and be still. 

395 Both thine and ours the victory hardly won; 
If ever with distempered voice or pen 
We have misdeemed thee, here we take it back, 
And for the dead of both don common black. 
Be to us evermore as thou wast then, 

400 As we forget thou hast not always been. 
Mother of States and unpolluted men, 
Virginia, fitly named from England's manly queen 1 

385. See note to p. 216, I. 741. 



394 LO WELL. 

IV. 

AGASSIZ. 

[Louis John Rudolph Agassiz was of Swiss 
birth, having been born in Canton Vaud, Switzer- 
land, in 1807 (see Longfellow's pleasing poem, The 
Fiftieth Birthdafy of Agassiz), and had already 
made a name as a naturalist, when he came to this 
country to pursue investigations in 1846. Here he 
was persuaded to remain, and after that identified 
himself with American life and learning. He was 
a masterly teacher, and by liis personal enthusiasm 
and influence did more than any one man in Amer- 
ica to stimulate study in natural history.-^ Through 
his name a great institution, the Museum of Com- 
parative Zoology, was established at Cambridge, in 
association with Harvard University, and he re- 
mained at the head of it until his death in 1874. 
His home was in Cambridge, and he endeared him- 
self to all with whom he was associated by the un- 
selfishness of his ambition, the generosity of his 
affection, and the liberality of his nature. Lowell 
was in Florence at the time of Agassiz's death, and 
sent home this poem, which was published in the 
Atlantic Monthly for May, 1874. Longfellow, be-, 
sides in flie poem mentioned above, has written of 
Agassiz in his sonnets, lliree Friends of Mine, ill., 

^ See Api)enclix. 



AGASSIZ. 395 

and Whittier also wrote Tlie Prayer of Agassiz. 
These poems are well worth comparing, as indicat- 
ing characteristic strains of the three poets.] 



Come 
Dicesti egli ebbe ? non viv' egli ancora? 
Non fiere gli ocelli suoi lo dolce lome? 

Dante, Inferno, Canto X. lines 67-69. 
[" How 
Saidst thou, — he had ? Is he not still alive ? 
Does not the sweet light strike upon his eye ? 

Longfellow, Translation.'] 



The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill 
Makes next-door gossips of the antipodes, 
Confutes poor Hope's last fallacy of ease, — 
The distance that divided her from ill: 
5 Earth sentient seems again as when of old 

The horny foot of Pan 
Stamped, and the conscious horror ran 
Beneath men's feet through all her fibres cold : 
Space's blue walls are mined ; we feel the throe 
ID From underground of our night-mantled foe : 

The flame-winged feet 
Of Trade's new Mercmy, that dry-shod run 
Through briny abysses dreamless of the sun, 

Are mercilessly fleet, 

6. Since Pan was the deity supposed to pervade all nature, 
the mysterious noises which issued from rocks or caves in 
mountainous regions were ascribed to him, and an unreasonable 
fear springing from sudden or unexplained causes came to be 
called aparuc. 

12. Mercury, the messenger of the gods, and fabled to have 



396 LO WELL. 

15 And at a bound annihilate 

Ocean's prerogative of short reprieve; 

Surely ill news might wait, 
And man be patient of delay to grieve: 
Letters have sympathies 
20 And tell-tale faces that reveal, 

To senses finer than the eyes. 
Their errand's purport ere we break the seal ; 
They wind a sorrow round with circumstance 
To stay its feet, nor all unwarned displace 
25 The veil that darkened from our sidelong glance 
The inexorable face : 
But now Fate stuns as with a mace; 
The savage of the skies, that men have caught 
And some scant use of language taught, 
30 Tells only what he must, — 

The steel cold fact in one laconic thrust. 

2. 

So thought I, as, with vague, mechanic eyes, 
I scanned the festering news we half despise 
Yet scramble for no less, 
35 And read of public scandal, private fraud, 

Crime flaunting scot-free while the mob ajiplaud, 
Office made vile to bribe unworthiness, 

And all the unwholesome mess 
The Laud of Broken Promise serves of late 
40 To teach the Old World how to wait. 

When suddenly, 

winged sandals, was the tutelar divinity of merchants, so that 
in a double way the modern application to the spirit of the 
electric telegraph becomes fit. 

39. At the time when this poem was written there was a suc- 
cession of terrible disclosures in America of public and private 
corruption; loud vaunts were made of dishonoring the national 



AGASSIZ. 397 

As happens if the. brain, from overweight' 

Of blood, infect the eye, 
Three tiny words grew lurid as I read, 
45 And reeled commingling: Agassiz is dead. 

As when, beneath the street's familiar jar, 
An eai'thquake's alien omen rumbles far. 
Men listen and forebode, I hung my head, 
And strove the present to recall, 
50 As if the blow that stunned were yet to fall. 



Uprooted is our mountain oak, 
That promised long security of shade 

word in financial matters, and there were few who did not look 
almost with despair upon the condition of public affairs. The 
aspect was even more sharply defined to those Americans who, 
travelling in Europe, found themselves openly or silently re- 
garded as representatives of a nation that seemed to be dis- 
gracing itself. Lowell's bitter words were part of the goadings 
of conscience which worked so sharply in America in the years 
immediately following. He was reproached by some for such 
words as this line contains, and, when he published his Three 
Memorial Poems, made this noble self-defence which stands in 
the front of that little book : — 

" If I let fall a word of bitter mirth 
When public shames more shameful pardon won, 
Some have misjudged me, and my service doue, 
If small, yet faithful, deemed of little worth : 
Through veins that drew their life from Western earth 
Two hundred years and more my blood hath run 
In no polluted course from sire to son ; 
And thus was I predestined ere my birth 
To love the soil wherewith my fibres own 
Instinctive sympathies ; yet love it so 
As honor would, nor lightly to dethrone 
Judgment, the stamp of manhood, nor forego 
The son's right to a mother dearer grown 
With growing knowledge and more chaste than snow." 



398 LO WELL 

And brooding-place for many a winged thoiiglit; 
Not by Time's softly warning stroke 
55 By pauses of relenting pity stayed, 

Bixt ere a root seemed sapt, a bough decayed, 
From sudden ambush by the whirlwind caught 
And in his broad maturity betrayed! 

4. 

Well might I, as of old, appeal to you, 
6o O mountains, woods, and streams. 

To help us mourn him, for ye loved him too; 

But simpler moods befit our modern themes, 
And no less 2:)erfect birth of nature can, 
Though they yearn tow'rds him, sympathize with 
man, 
65 Save as dumb fellow-prisoners through a wall; 
Answer ye rather to my call, 
Strong poets of a more outspoken day. 
Too much for softer arts forgotten since 
That teach our forthright tongue to lisjJ and 
mince, 
70 Lead me some steps in your directer way, 
Teach me those words that strike a solid root 

59. In classical mythology Adonis was fabled as a lovely 
youth, killed by a boar, and lamented long by Venus who was 
inconsolable for his loss. The poets used this story for a symbol 
of grief and when mourning the loss of a human being were 
wont to call on nature to join in the lamentation. This classic 
form of mourning descended in literature and at different times 
has found very beautiful expression, as in Milton's Lycidas and 
Shelley's Adonais which is a lament over the dead poet Keats. 
Here the poet might justly call on nature to lament the death of 
her great student, but he turns from the form as too classic and 
artificial and remote from his warmer sympathy. In his own 
strong sense of human life he demands a fellowship of grief 
from no lower order of nature than man himself. 



AG AS SI Z. 399 

Within the ears of men ; 
Ye chiefly, virile both to think and feel, 
Deep-chested Chapman and firm-footed Ben, — 

75 For he was masculine from head and heel. 
Nay, let himself stand undiminished by 
With those clear parts of him that will not die. 
Himself from out the recent dark I claim 
To hear, and, if I flatter him, to blame; 

80 To show himself, as still I seem to see, 
A mortal, built upon the antique plan. 
Brimful of lusty blood as ever ran, 
And taking life as simply as a tree ! 
To claim my foiled good-by let him appear, 

85 Large-limbed and human as I saw him near. 
Loosed from the stiffening uniform of fame: 
And let me treat him largely: I should fear, 
(If with too prying lens I chanced to err, 
Mistaking catalogue for character,) 

90 His wise forefinger raised in smiling blame. 
Nor would I scant him with judicial breath 
And turn mere critic in an epitaph ; 
I choose the wheat, incurious of the chaff 
That swells fame living, chokes it after death, 

95 And would but memorize the shining half 
Of his large nature that was turned to me: 
Fain had I joined with those that honored him 
With eyes that darkened because his were dim, 
And now been silent : but it might not be. 

74. Chapman and Ben Jouson were contemporaries of 
Shakspere. The former is best known b}' his rich, picturesque 
translation of Homer. Lowell may easilj^ have had in mind 
among Jonson's Elegies, his majestic ode, On the Death of Sir 
Lucius Gary and Sir H. Morison. He rightly claims for the 
poets of the Elizabethan age a frankness and largeness of speech 
rarely heard in our more refined and restrained time. 
84. Since tlu' poet could not be by Agassiz at the last. 



400 LO WELL. 

n. 



roo In some the genius is a thing apart, 
A pillared hermit of the brain, 
Hoarding with incommunicable art 
Its intellectual gain ; 
Man's web of circumstance and fate 
105 They from their perch of self observe, 

Indifferent as the figures on a slate 

Are to the planet's sun-swung curve 
Whose bright returns they calculate ; 
Their nice adjustment, part to part, 
1 10 Were shaken from its serviceable mood 
By unpremediated stirs of heart 

Or jar of human neighborhood: 
Some find their natural selves, and only then, 
In furloughs of divine escape from men, 
115 And when, by that brief ecstasy left bare, 
Driven by some instinct of desire. 
They wander worldward, 't is to blink and stare, 
Like wild things of the wood about the fire. 
Dazed of the social glow they cannot share; 
120 His nature brooked no lonely lair. 

But basked and bourgeoned in copartnery, 
Companionship, and open- windowed glee: 
He knew, for he had tried, 

118. Travellers in the wilderness find their camp-fires the at- 
traction of the beasts that prowl about the camp. 

123. " Agassiz was a born metaphysician, and moreover had 
pm'sued severe studies in philosophy. Those who knew him 
well were constantly surprised at the ease with which he han- 
dled the more intricate problems of thought." Theodore Ly- 
man, in Recollections of Ayasslz, Atlantic Monthly, February, 
1874. 



AGASSIZ. 401 

Those speculative heights that hire 

125 The unpractised foot, imparient of a guide, 
Tow'rds other too attenuately pure 
For sweet unconscious breath, though dear to 
pride, 
But better loved the foothold sure 
Of paths that wind by old abodes of men 

130 Who hope at last the churchyard's peace secure, 
And follow time-worn rules, that them suffice, 
Learned from their sires, traditionally wise, 
Careful of honest custom's how and when ; 
His mind, too brave to look on Truth askance, 

135 No more those habitudes of faith could share, 
But, tinged with sweetness of the old Swiss manse, 
Lingered around them still and fain would spare. 
Patient to spy a sullen egg for weeks, 
The enigma of creation to surprise, 

140 His truer instinct sought the life that speaks 
Without a mystery from kindly eyes ; 
In no self-woven silk of prudence wound. 
He by the touch of men was best inspired, 
And caught his native greatness at rebound 

145 From generosities itself had fired ; 

Then how the heat through every fibre ran. 
Felt in the gathering presence of the man, 
While the apt word and gesture came unbid ! 
Virtues and faults it to one metal wrought, 

150 Fined all his blood to thought, 

And ran the molten man in all he said or did. 
All TuUy's rules and all Quintilian's too 
He by the light of listening faces knew, 

152. Tully is the now somewhat old-fashioned English way of 
referring to Marcus Tullius Cicero, wliose book De Orntore and 
Quintilian's Institutiones Oratoriw were the most celebrated an- 
cient works on rhetoric. 
26 



402 LOWELL. 

And his rapt audience all unconscious lent 
155 Their own roused force to make him eloquent; 

Persuasion fondled in his look and tone; 

Our speech (with strangers prudish) he could bring 

To find new charms in accents not her own ; 

Her coy constraints and icy hindrances 
160 Melted upon his lips to natural ease, 

As a brook's fetters swell the dance of spx-ing. 

Nor yet all sweetness: not in vain he wore, 

Nor in the sheath of ceremony, controlled 

By velvet courtesy or caution cold, 
165 That sword of honest anger prized of old, 
But, with two-handed wrath, 

If baseness or pretension crossed his path, 
Struck once nor needed to strike more- 



His magic was not far to seek, — 
170 He was so human! whether strong or weak, 
Far from his kind he neither sank nor soared, 
But sate an equal guest at every board: 
No beggar ever felt him condescend. 
No prince presume ; for still himself he bare 
175 At manhood's simple level, and where'er 
He met a stranger, there he left a friend. 
How large an aspect! nobly unsevere, 
With freshness round him of Olympian cheer. 
Like visits of those earthly gods he came ; 
180 His look, wherever its good-fortune fell, 
Doubled the feast without a miracle, 
And on the hearthstone danced a happier flame; 
Philemon's crabbed vintage grew benign; 
Amphitryon's gold-juice humanized to wine. 

183. For the stories of Philemon and Amphitryon, see Ovid's 
Metamorphoses, viii. 631, and vi. 112. 



AGASSIZ. 403 

III. 



185 The garrulous memories 

Gather again from all their far-flown nooks, 
Singly at first, and then by twos and threes, 
Then in a throng innumerable, as the rooks 
Thicken their twilight files 

190 Tow'rds Tintern's gray repose of roofless aisles: 
Once more I see him at the table's head. 
When Saturday her monthly banquet spread 

To scholars, poets, wits, 
All choice, some famous, loving things, not names, 

195 And so without a twinge at others' fames, 
Such company as wisest moods befits, 
Yet with no pedant blindness to the worth 

Of undeliberate mirth. 
Natures benignly mixed of air and earth, 

200 Now with the stars and now with equal zest 
Tracing the eccentric orbit of a jest. 

2. 

I see in vision the warm-lighted hall, 
The living and the dead I see again, 
And but one chair is empty of them all ; — 
205 'T is I that seem the dead: they all remain 
Immortal, changeless creatures of the brain: 
Well-nigh I doubt which world is real most, 

190. Tintern Abbey on the river Wye is one of the most fa- 
mous ruins in England. About this as other ruins and shaded 
buildings the rooks make their home. 

]92. A club known as the Saturday Club has for many years 
met in Boston, and some of the prominent members are inti- 
mated in the following lines. 



404 LOWELL. 

Of sense or spirit, to the truly sane ; 
In this abstraction it were light to deem 

210 Myself the figment of some stronger dream; 
They are the real things, and I the ghost 
That glide unhindered through the solid door. 
Vainly for recognition seek from chair to chair, 
And strive to speak and am but futile air, 

215 As truly most of us are little more. 

3. 

Him most I see whom we most dearly miss, 

The latest parted thence, 
His features poised in genial armistice 
And armed neutrality of self-defence 

220 Beneath the forehead's walled preeminence, 
While Tyro, plucking facts with careless reach, 
Settles off-hand our human how and whence; 
The long-trained veteran scarcely wincing hears 
The infallible strategy of volunteers 

225 Making through Nature's walls its easy breach, 
And seems to learn where he alone could teach. 
Ample and ruddy, the room's end he fills 
As he our fireside were, our light and heat, 
Centre where minds diverse and various skills 

230 Find their warm nook and stretch unhampered 
feet; 
I see the fii-m benignity of face, 
Wide-smiling champaign without tameness sweet, 
The mass Teutonic toned to Gallic grace. 
The eyes whose sunshine runs before the lips 

235 While Holmes's rockets curve their long ellipse. 
And burst in seeds of fire that burst again 
To drop in scintillating rain. 
216. Agassiz himself. 



AOASSIZ. 405 

4. 

There too the face half-rustic, half-divine, 
Self-poised, sagacious, freaked with humor fine, 

240 Of hiua who taught us not to mow and mope 
About our fancied selves, but seek our scope 

In Nature's world and Man's, nor fade to hollow trope; 
Listening with eyes averse I see him sit 
Pricked with the cider of the judge's wit 

245 (Ripe-hearted homebrew, fresh and fresh again), 
^^Tiile the wise nose's firm-built aquiline 

Curves sharper to restrain 
The merriment whose most unruly moods 
Pass not the dumb laugh learned in listening woods 

250 Of silence-shedding pine : 

Hard by is he whose art's consoling spell 
Has given both worlds a whiff of asphodel, 
His look still vernal 'mid the wintry ring 
Of petals that remember, not foretell, 

255 The paler primrose of a second spring. 



And more there are : but other forms arise 
And seen as clear, albeit with dimmer eyes : 
First he fi'om sympathy still held apart 

238. Ralph Waldo Emerson. The words half-rustic, half- 
divine, recall Lowell's earlier characterization in his Fable for 
Critics : — 

" A Greek head ou right Yankee shoulders, whose range 
Has Olympus for one pole, for t' other the Exchange ; 
He seems, to my thinking (although I am afraid 
The comparison, must, long ere this, have been made), 
A Plotinus Montaigne, where the Egyptian's gold mist 
And the Gascon's shrewd wit cheek by jowl co-exist." 
244. Judge E. R. Hoar. 
251. Longfellow. 

258. Nathaniel Hawthorne. He was buried in Concord, May 
24, 1864. 



406 LOWELL. 

By shrinking over-eagerness of heart, 
260 Cloud charged with searching fire, whose shadow's 
sweep 
Heightened mean things with sense of brooding ill. 
And steeped in doom familiar field and hill, — 
New England's poet, soul reserved and deep, 
November nature with a name of May, 
265 Whom high o'er Concord plains we laid to sleep. 
While the orchards mocked us in their white ai-- 

ray, 
And building robins wondered at our tears. 
Snatched in his prime, the shape august 
That should have stood unbent 'neath fourscore 
years, 
270 The noble head, the eyes of furtive trust, 
All gone to speechless dust ; 
And he our passing guest. 
Shy nature, too, and stung with life's unrest, 
Whom we too briefly had but could not hold, 
275 Who brought ripe Oxford's culture to our board, 
The Past's incalculable hoard. 
Mellowed by scutcheoned panes in cloisters old, 
Seclusions ivy-hushed, and pavements sweet 
With immemorial lisp of musing feet ; 
280 Young head time-tonsured smoother than a friar's, 
Boy face, but grave with answerless desires. 
Poet in all that poets have of best, 
But foiled with riddles dark and cloudy aims. 
Who now hath found sure rest, 
272. Arthur Hugh Clough, an English poet, author of the 
Bvthie of Toper-na-Vuolich, and editor of Dryden^s Transla- 
tion aj" Plutarch' s Lives, Who came to this country in 1852 with 
some purpose of making it his home, but returned to England 
in less than a year. He lived while here in Cambridge., and 
strong attachments grew up between him and the men of letters 
in Cambridge aud Concord. 



AGASSIZ. 407 

285 Not by still Isis or historic Thames, 

Nor by the Charles he tried to love with me, 
But, uot misplaced, by Arno's hallowed brim. 
Nor scorned by Santa Croce's neighboring fames, 
Haply not mindless, wheresoe'er he be, 
290 Of violets that to-day I scattered over him ; 
He, too, is there. 
After the good centurion fitly named. 
Whom learning dulled not, nor convention tamed. 
Shaking with burly mirth his hyacinthine hair, 
295 Our hearty Grecian of Homeric ways. 
Still found the surer friend where least he hoped the 
praise. 



Yea truly, as the sallowing years 
Fall from us faster, like frost-loosened leaves 
Pushed by the misty touch of shortening days, 

300 And that unwakened winter nears, 

'T is the void chair our surest guests receives, 
'T is lips long cold that give the warmest kiss, 
'T is the lost voice comes oftenest to our ears; 
We count our rosary by the beads we miss : 

305 To me, at least, it seemeth so. 

An exile in the land once found divine. 
While my starved fire burns low, 

287. Clough died in his forty-third year, November 13, 1861, 
and was buried in the little Protestant cemetery outside the 
walls of Florence. 

288. Santa Croce is the church in Florence where many illus- 
trious dead are buried, among them Michelangelo, Machiavelli, 
Galileo, Alfieri. 

291. Cornelius Conway Felton, Professor of Greek Language 
and Literature in Harvard College, and afterward President until 
his death in 18G2. 



408 LO WELL. 

And homeless winds at the loose casement whine 
Shrill ditties of the snow-roofed Apennine. 



IV. 



310 Now forth into the darkness all are gone, 
But memory, still unsated, follows on. 
Retracing step by step our homeward walk, 
With many a laugh among our serious talk. 
Across the bridge where, on the dimpling tide, 

315 The long red streamers from the -windows glide. 
Or the dim western moon 
Rocks her skiff's image on the bi'oad lagoon, 
And Boston shows a soft Venetian side 
In that Arcadian light when roof and tree, 

320 Hard prose by daylight, dream in Italy ; 
Or haply in the sky's cold chambers wide 
Shivered the winter stars, while all below, 
As if an end were come of human ill, 
The world was wrapt in innocence of snow 

325 And the cast-iron bay was blind and still ; 
These were our poetry; in him perhaps 
Science had barred the gate that lets in dream, 
And he would rather count the perch and bream 
Than with the current's idle fancy lapse; 

330 And yet he had the poet's open eye 
That takes a frank delight in all it sees. 
Nor was earth voiceless, nor the mystic sky, 
To him the life-long friend of fields and trees: 

315. In walking over West Boston bridge at night one sees 
the lights from the houses on Beacon Street reflected in the 
water below and seeming to make one long light where flame 
and reflection join. 



AGASSIZ. 409 

Then came the prose of the suburban street, 

335 Its silence deepened by our echoing feet, 

And converse such as rambling hazai'd finds; 
Then he who many cities knew and many minds 
And men once world-noised, now mere Ossian 

forms 
Of misty memory, bade them live anew 

340 As when they shared earth's manifold delight. 
In shape, in gait, in voice, in gesture true. 
And, with an accent heightening as he warms, 
Would stop forgetful of the shortening night, 
Drop my confining arm, and pour profuse 

345 Much wordly wisdom kept for others' use, 
Not for his own, for he was rash and free. 
His purse or knowledge all men's, like the sea. 
Still can I hear his voice's shrilling might 
(With pauses broken, while the fitful spark 

350 He blew more hotly rounded on the dark 

To hint his features with a Rembrandt light) 
Call Oken back, or Humboldt, or Lamarck, 
Or Cuvier's taller shade, and many more 
Whom he had seen, or knew from others' sight, 

355 And make them men to me as ne'er before : 

337. See note to p. 373, 1. 230. 

338. Ossian was a fabulous Celtic warrior poet known chiefly 
through the pretended poems of Ossian of James MacPherson 
who lived in Scotland the latter half of the eighteenth century. 
There has been much controversy over the exact relation of 
Macpherson to the poems, which are Scotch crags looming out 
of Scotch mists. 

352. Naturalists of renown. Oken was a remarkable and ec- 
centric Swiss naturalist, 1779-1851 ; Humboldt a great natural- 
ist and traveller, known by his Kosmos, 1769-1859 ; Lamarck, 
1744-1829 ; Olivier, in some respects the father of modern clas- 
silication, and Agassiz's teacher, 1769-1832 ; all these were per- 
sonalh' known to Agassiz. 



410 LOWELL. 

Not seldom, as the undeadened fibre stirred 
Of noble friendships knit beyond the sea, 
German or French thrust by the lagging word, 
For a good leash of mother-tongues had he. 
360 At last, arrived at where our paths divide, 

" Good night!" and, ere the distance grew too 

wide, 
" Good night! " again; and now with cheated ear 
I half hear his who mine shall never hear. 



Sometimes it seemed as if New England air 
365 For his large lungs too parsimonious were, 
As if those empty rooms of dogma drear 
Where the ghost shivers of a faith austere 
Counting the horns o'er of the Beast, 
Still scaring those whose faith in it is least, 
370 As if those snaps 0' th' moral atmosphere 
That sharpen all the needles of the East, 

Had been to him like death, 
Accvistomed to draw Europe's freer breath 
In a more stable element; 
375 Nay, even our landscape, half the year morose, 
Our practical horizon grimly pent. 
Our air, sincere of ceremonious haze, 
Forcing hard outlines mercilessly close, 
Our social monotone of level days, 
380 Might make our best seem banishment, 

But it was nothing so ; 
Haply his instinct might divine. 
Beneath our drift of puritanic snow. 
The marvel sensitive and fine 
385 Of sanguinaria overrash to blow 

And warm its shyness in an air benign ; 

Well might he pi'ize truth's warranty and pledge 



AGASSIZ. 411 

In the grim outcrop of our granite edge, 
The Hebrew fervor flashing forth at need 

390 In the stiff sons of Calvin's iron breed, 

As prompt to give as skilled to win and keep; 
But, though such intuitions might not cheer, 
Yet life was good to him, and, there or here, 

With that sufficing joy, the day was never cheap; 

395 Thereto his mind was its own ample sphere. 

And, like those buildings great that through the 

year 
Carry one temperature, his nature large 
Made its own climate, nor could any marge 
Traced by convention stay him from his beat: 

400 He had a habitude of mountain air; 

He brought wide outlook wbere he went. 

And could on sunny uplands dwell 
Of prospect sweeter than the pastures fair 
High-hung of viny Neufchatel, 

405 Nor, surely, did he miss 

Some pale, imaginary bliss 

Of earlier sights whose inner landscape still was Swiss. 



V. 



I cannot think he wished so soon to die 
With all his senses full of eager heat, 
410 And rosy years that stood expectant by 

To buckle the winged sandals on their feet, — 
He that was friends with earth, and all her sweet 
Took with both hands unsparinglj^: 
Truly this life is precious to the root, 

397. This is said of St. Peter's in Rome. 
411. See note to p. 395, 1. 12. 



412 LOWELL. 

415 And good the feel of grass beneatt the foot; 
To lie in buttercups and clover-bloom, 
Tenants in common with the bees, 
And watch the white clouds drift through gulfs of 

trees, 
Is better than long waiting in the tomb ; 
420 Only once more to feel the coming spring 

As the birds feel it when it makes them sing, 

Only once more to see the moon 
Through leaf-fringed abbey-arches of the elms 
Curve her mild sickle in the West 
425 &weet with the breath of hay-cocks, were a boon 
Worth any promise of soothsayer realms 
Or casual hope of being elsewhere West; 

To take December by the beard 
And crush the creaking snow with springy foot, 
430 While overhead the North's dumb streamers shoot, 
Till Winter fawn upon the cheek endeared; 
Then the long evening ends 
Lingered by cozy chimney-nooks. 
With high companionship of books, 
435 Or slippered talk of friends 

And sweet habitual looks. 
Is better than to stop the ears with dust: 
Too soon the spectre comes to say, " Thou must ! " 

2. 

When toil-crooked hands are crost upon the breast, 
440 They comfort us with sense of rest; 

They must be glad to lie forever still; 

Their work is ended with their day; 
Another fills their room; 'tis the World's ancient way, 

Whether for good or ill; 
445 But the deft spinners of the brain, 

Who love each added day and find it gain, 



AGASSI Z. 413 

Them overtakes the doom 
To snap the half-grown flower upon the loom 
(Trophy that was to be of life-long pain), 
450 The thread no other skill can ever knit again. 

'Twas so with him, for he was glad to live, 
'T was doubly so, for he left work begun ; 
Could not this eagerness of Fate forgive 
Till all the allotted flax was spun ? 
455 It matters not; for go at night or noon, 

A friend, whene'er he dies, has died too soon, 
And, once we hear the hopeless He is dead, 
So far as flesh hath knowledge, all is said. 



VL 

1. 

I seem to see the black procession go : 
460 That crawling prose of death too well I know. 

The vulgar paraphrase of glorious woe; 

I see it wind through that unsightly grove, 

Once beautiful, but long defaced 

With granite permanence of cockney taste 
465 And all those grim disfigurements we love: 

There, then, we leave him: Him? such costly 
waste 

Nature rebels at: and it is not true 
Of those most precious parts of him we knew: 

Could we be conscious but as dreamers be, 
470 'T were sweet to leave this shifting life of tents 

Sunk in the changeless calm of Deity; 

Nay, to be mingled with the elements, 

The fellow-servant of creative powers, 

462. Mount Auburn cemetery in Cambridge, where Agassiz 
lies. 



414 LO WELL. 

Partaker in the solemn year's events, 
475 To share the work of busy-fingered hours, 
To be night's silent almoner of dew. 
To rise again in plants and breathe and grow, 
To stream as tides the oeean cavern through, 
Or with the rapture of great winds to blow 
480 About earth's shaken coignes, were not a fate 
To leave us all-disconsolate; 
Even endless slumber in the sweetening sod 
Of charitable earth 
That takes out all our mortal stains, 
485 And makes us clearlier neighbors of the clod, 

Methinks were better worth 
Than the poor fruit of most men's wakeful pains, 
The heart's insatiable ache: 
But such was not his faith, 
490 Nor mine: it may be he had trod 

Outside the plain old path of God thus spake. 
But God to him was very God, 
And not a visionary wraith 
Skulking in murky corners of the mind, 
495 And he was sure to be 

Somehow, somewhere, imperishable as He, 
Not with His essence mystically combined. 
As some high spirits long, but whole and free, 
A pei'fected and conscious Agassiz. 
500 And such I figure him: the wise of old 

Welcome and own him of their peaceful fold. 
Not truly with the guild enrolled 
Of liini who seeking inward guessed 
Diviner riddles than the rest, 
505 And groping in the darks of thought 

Touched the Great Hand and knew it not; 
503. Plato. 



AGASSIZ. 415 

He rather shares the daily light, 
From reason's charier fountains won, 
Of his great chief, the slow-paced Stagyrite, 
510 And Cuvicr clae^ps once more his long-lost son. 



The shape ei'ect is prone : forever stilled 

The winning tongue ; the forehead's high-piled 

heap, 
A cairn which every science helped to build, 
Unvalued will its golden secrets keep: 

515 He knows at last if Life or Death be best : 
Wherever he be flown, whatever vest 
The being hath jiut on which lately here 
So many-friended was, so full of cheer 
To make men feel the Seeker's noble zest, 

520 We have not lost him all; he is not gone 
To the dumb herd of them that wholly die; 
The beauty of his better self lives on 
In minds he touched with fire, in many an eye 
He trained to Truth's exact severity; 

525 He was a Teacher: why be grieved for him 
Whose living word still stimulates the air ? 
In endless files shall loving scholars come 
The glow of his transmitted touch to share, 
And trace his features with an eye less dim 

530 Than ours whose sense familiar wont makes numb. 

Flobence, Italy, February, 1874. 

509. Aristotle, so-called from his birthplace of Stagira in Ma- 
cedonia. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH. 

TO many readers the name of Emerson is that of 
a philosophical prose writer, hard to be un- 
derstood ; in time to come it will perhaps be won- 
dered at that the introduction ' of his name in a 
volume of American Poems should seem to require 
an explanation or shadow of an apology ; it is likely 
even that his philosophy will be read and welcomed 
chiefly for those elements which it has in common 
with his poetry. His life has been uneventful as 
regards external change or adventure. It has been 
passed mainly in Boston and Concord, Massachu- 
setts. He was born at Boston, May 25, 1803. His 
father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, 
were all ministers, and, indeed, on both his father's 
and mother's side he belongs to an unbroken line 
of ministerial descent from the seventeenth century. 
At the time of his birth, his father, the Rev. Wil- 
liam Emerson, was minister of the First Church 
congregation, but on his death a few years after- 
ward, Raljjli Waldo Emerson, a boy of seven, went 
to live in the old manse at Concord, where his grand- 
father had lived when the Concord fiirht occurred. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 417 

The old manse was afterward the home at one time 
of Hawthorne, who wrote there the stories which 
he gathered into the volumes, Mosses from an Old 
Manse. 

Emerson was graduated at Harvard in 1821, and 
after teaching a year or two gave himself to the 
study of divinity. From 1827 to 1832 he preached 
in Unitarian churches and was for four years a col- 
league pastor in the Second Church in Boston. 
He then left the ministry and has since devoted 
himseK to literature. He travelled abroad in 1833, 
in 1847, and again in 1872, making friends among 
the leading thinkers during his first journey, and 
confirming the friendships when again in Europe ; 
with the exception of these three journej^s and oc- 
casional lecturing tours in the United States, he 
has lived quietly at Concord. 

He had delivered several special addresses, and 
in his early manhood was an important lecturer in 
the Lyceum courses which were so popular, espe- 
cially in New England, forty years ago, but his first 
published book was Nature, in 1839. Subsequent 
prose works have been his Essays, under that title, 
and in several volumes with specific titles. Repre- 
sentative Men and English Traits, which last em- 
bodies the results of his first two visits to England. 

He wrote poems when in college, but his first 
publication was through The Dial, a magazine es- 
tablished in 1840, and the representative of a knot 
of men and women of whom Emerson was the ac- 
knowledged or unacknowledged leader. The first 
27 



418 EMERSON. 

volume of his poems was published in 1847, and 
included those by which he is best known, as The 
Problem, The Sphinx, The Rhodora, The Humble 
Bee, Hymn Sung at the Completion of the Concord 
Monument. After the establishment of the Atlan- 
tic Monthly in 1857 he contributed to it both prose 
and poetry, and verses published in the early num- 
bers, mere enigmas to some, profound revelations 
to others, were fruitful of discussion and thought ; 
his second volume of poems, May Day and other 
Pieces, was not issued until 1867. Since then a 
volume of his collected poetry has appeared, con- 
taining most of those published in the two volumes, 
and a few in addition. We are told, however, that 
the published writings of Emerson bear but small 
l^roportion to the unpublished. Many lectures have 
been delivered, but not printed ; many poems writ- 
ten, and a few read, which have never been pub- 
lished. The inference from this, borne out by the 
marks upon what has been published, is that Mr. 
Emerson sets a high value upon literature, and is 
jealous of the prerogative of the poet. He is fre- 
quently called a seer, and this old word, indicating 
etymologically its original intention, is applied well 
to a poet who sees into nature and human life with 
a sjDiritual power which has made him a marked 
man in his own time, and one destined to an unri- 
valled place in literature. He fulfils Wordsworth's 
lines, — 

" With an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmoii}', and the deep power of joy, 
We see iuto the life of things." 



I. 

THE ADIRONDACS- 

A JOUKNAL, 
DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-TRAVELLEKS IN AUGUST, 

1858. 

Wise and polite, — and if I drew 
Their several portraits, you would own 
Chaucer had no such worthy crew 
Nor Boccace iu Decameron. 

We crossed Cliamplain to Keeseville with our 

friends, 
Tlience, in strong country carts, rode up the forks 
Of the Ausable stream, intent to reach 
The Adirondac lakes. At Martin's Beach 
5 We chose onr boats ; each man a boat and guide, — 
Ten men, ten guides, our company all told. 

Next morn, we swept with oars the Saranac, 
With skies of benediction, to Round Lake, 
Where all the sacred mountains drew around us, 
lo Tahdwus, Seward, Maclntyre, Baldhead, 
And other Titans without muse or name. 
Pleased with these grand companions, we glide 

on, 
Instead of flowers, crowned with a wreath of 

hills, 
And made our distance wider, boat from boat, 
15 As each would hear the oracle alone. 



420 EMERSON. 

By the briglit morn the gay flotiUa slid 
Through files of flags that gleamed like bayonets, 
Through gold-moth-haunted beds of pickerel- 
flower, 
Through scented banks of lilies white and gold, 

20 Where the deer feeds at night, the teal by day, 
On through the Upper Saranac, and up 
Pere Raquette stream, to a small tortuous pass 
Winding through grassy shallows in and out. 
Two creeping miles of rushes, pads, and sponge, ■ 

25 To Follansbee Water and the Lake of Loons. 

Northward the length of Follansbee we rowed, 
Under low mountains, whose unbroken ridge 
Ponderous with beechen forest sloped the shore. 
A pause and council: then, where near the head 

30 On the east a bay makes inward to the land 
Between two rocky arms, we climb the bank. 
And in the twilight of the forest noon 
- AVield the first axe these echoes ever heard. 
We cut young trees to make our poles and thwarts, 

35 Barked the white spruce to weatherfend the roof. 
Then struck a light, and kindled the camp-fire. 

The wood was sovran with centennial trees — 
Oak, cedar, maple, poplar, beech and fir. 
Linden and spruce. In strict society 
40 Three conifers, white, pitch, and Norway pine, 
Five-leaved, three-leaved, and two-leaved, grew 

thereby. 
Our patron pine was fifteen feet in girth. 
The maple eight, beneath its shapely tower. 

37. Milton frequently employed the form sovran for sover- 
eign, although in many editions the spelling has been changed 
to the longer form. 



THE ADIRONDACS. 421 

" Welcome! " the wood god murmured through 
the leaves, — 
45 " Welcome, though late, unknowing, yet known 
to me." 
Evening drew on ; stars peeped through maple- 
boughs, 
Which o'erhung, like a cloud, our camping fire. 
Decayed millennial ti'unks, like moonlight flecks, 
Lit with phosphoric crumbs the forest floor. 

50 Ten scholars, wonted to lie warm and soft 
In well-hung chambers daintily bestowed. 
Lie here on hemlock boughs, like Sacs and Sioux, 
And greet unanimous the joyful change. 
So fast will Nature acclimate her sons, 

55 Though late returning to her pristine ways. 
Off soundings, seamen do not suffer cold; 
And, in the forest, delicate clerks, unbrowned, 
Sleep on the fragrant brush as on down-beds. 
Up with the dawn, they fancied the light air 

60 That circled freshly in their forest dress 

Made them to boys again. Happier that they 
Slipped off their pack of duties, leagues behind, 
At the first mounting of the giant stairs. 
No placard on these rocks warned to the polls, 

65 No door-bell heralded a visitor, 

No courier waits, no letter came or went, 
Nothing was ploughed, or reaped, or bought, or 

sold ; 
The frost might glitter, it would blight no crop, 
The falling rain will spoil no holiday. 

70 We were made freemen of the forest laws. 
All dressed, like Nature, fit for her own ends, 
Essaying nothing she cannot perform. 



422 EMERSON. 

In Adirondac lakes, 
At morn or noon, the guide rows bareheaded ; 

y^ Shoes, flannel shirt, and kersey trousers make 
His brief toilette : at ni^jht, or in the rain, 
He dons a surcoat which he doS's at morn : 
A paddle in the right hand, or an oar, 
And in the left, a gun, his needful arms. 

80 By turns we praised the stature of our guides, 
Their rival strength and suppleness, their skill 
To row, to swim, to shoot, to build a camp, 
To climb a lofty stem, clean without boughs 
Full fifty feet, and bring the eaglet down : 

85 Temper to face wolf, bear, or catamount, 
And wit to trap or take him in his lair. 
Sound, ruddy men, frolic and innocent, 
In winter, lumberers ; in summer, guides ; 
Their sinewy arms pull at the oar untired 

90 Three times ten thousand strokes, from morn to 
eve. 

Look to yourselves, ye polished gentlemen! 
No city airs or arts pass current here. 
Your rank is all reversed : let men of cloth 
Bow to the stalwart churls in overalls : 
95 They are the doctors of the wilderness, 
And we the low-prized laymen. 
In sooth, red flannel is a saucy test 
Which few can put on with impunity. 
What make you, master, fumbling at the oar ? 
100 Will you catch crabs ? Truth tries pretension 
here. 
The sallow knows the basket-maker's thumb; 
The oar, the guide's. Dare you accept the tasks 
He shall impose, to find a spring, trap foxes. 
Tell the sun's time, determine the true north, 



THE ADIRONDACS. 423 

105 Or stumbling;; on through vast self-similar woods 
To thread by night the nearest way to camp ? 

Ask you, how went the hours ? 
All day we swept the lake, searched every cove, 
North from Camp Maple, south to Osprey Bay, 

no Watching when the loud dogs should drive iu 
deer, 
Or whipping its rough surface for a trout ; 
Or bathers, diving from the rock at noon ; 
Challenging Echo by our guns and cries ; 
Or listening to the laughter of the loon ; 

115 Or, in the evening twilight's latest red, 
Beholding the procession of the pines ; 
Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack, 
In the boat's bows, a silent night-hunter 
Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds 

120 Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist. 

Hai'k to that muffled roar ! a tree in the woods 
Is fallen : but hush ! it has not scared the buck 

114. Thoreaii, in Walden, has an admirable accoimt of the 
loon and its habits. " His usual note was this demoniac laugh- 
ter, yet somewhat like that of a water-fowl ; but occasionally, 
when he had balked me most successful!}' and come up a long 
way off, he uttered a long drawn, unearthly howl, probably 
more like that of a wolf than any bird ; as when a beast puts 
his muzzle to the ground and deliberately howls. This was his 
looning, — perhaps the wildest sound that is ever heard here, 
making the woods ring far and wide. I concluded that he 
laughed in derision at my efforts, confident of his own re- 
sources." Page 254. 

116. One of Mr. Emerson's companions in this excursion, 
Stillman the artist, painted The Procession of the Pines, the as- 
pect, so familiar to the woodman, of a line of pines upon a hill- 
top outlined against the evening skj', and seeming to be march- 
ing solemnly. 



424 EMERSON. 

Who stands astonished at the meteor light, 
Then turns to bound away, — is it too late? 

125 Sometimes we tried our rifles at a mark. 

Six rods, sixteen, twenty, or forty-five; 

Sometimes our wits at sally and retort, 

With laughter sudden as the crack of rifle ; 

Or parties scaled the near acclivities 
130 Competing seekers of a rumored lake. 

Whose unauthenticated waves we named 

Lake Probability, — our carbuncle. 

Long sought, not found. 

Two Doctors in the camp 
Dissected the slain deer, weighed the trout's brain, 

135 Captured the lizard, salamander, shrew. 

Crab, mice, snail, dragon-fly, minnow, and moth; 
Insatiate skill in water or in air 
Waved the scoop-net, and nothing came amiss ; 
The while, one leaden pot of alcohol 

140 Gave an impartial tomb to all the kinds. 

Not less the ambitious botanist sought plants, 
Orchis and gentian, fern, and long whip-scirpus, 
Rosy polygonum, lake-margin's pride, 
Hypnum and hydnum, mushroom, sponge, and 
moss, 

145 Or harebell nodding in the gorge of falls. 
Above, the eagle flew, the osprey screamed, 
The raven croaked, owls hooted, the woodpecker 
Loud hammered, and the heron rose in the swamp. 
As water poured thi'ough hollows of the hills 

150 To feed this wealth of lakes and rivulets. 
So Nature shed all beauty lavishly 
From her redundant horn. 
132. See Hawthorne's story of The Great Carbuncle. 



THE ADIRONDACS. 425 

Lords of this realm, 
Bounded by dawn and sunset, and the day 
Rounded by hours where each outdid the last 

155 In miracles of pomp, we must be proud, 
As if associates of the sylvan gods. 
We seemed the dwellers of the zodiac. 
So pure the Alpine element we breathed. 
So light, so lofty pictures came and went. 

160 We trode on air, contemned the distant town. 
Its timorous ways, big trifles, and we planned 
That we should build, hard-by, a spacious lodge. 
And how we should come hither with our sons. 
Hereafter, — willing they, and more adroit. 

165 Hard fare, hard bed, and comic misery, — 
The midge, the blue-fly, and the mosquito 
Painted our necks, hands, ankles, with red bands;. 
But, on the second day, we heed them not, 
Nay, we saluted them Auxiliaries, 

170 Whom earlier we had chid with spiteful names. 
For who defends our leafy tabernacle 
From bold intrusion of the travelling crowd, — 
Who but the midge, mosquito, and the fly. 
Which past endurance sting the tender cit, 

175 But which we learn to scatter with a smudge. 
Or baffle by a veil, or slight by scorn? 

Our foaming ale we drank from hunters' pans, 
Ale, and a sup of wine. Our steward gave 
Venison and trout, potatoes, beans, wheat-bread; 
180 All ate like abbots, and, if any missed 

Their wonted convenance, cheerly hid the loss 
With hunter's appetite and peals of mirth. 
And Stillman, our guides' guide, and Commodore, 
183. Stillman left his own record of this excursion in a prose 



426 EMERSON. 

Crusoe, Crusader, Pius iEneas, said aloud, 
185 " Chronic dyspepsia never came from eating 
Food indigestible: " — then murmured some, 
Others ajiplauded him who spoke the truth. 

Nor doubt but visitings of graver thought 
Checked in these souls the turbulent heyday 

190 'Mid all the hints and glories of the home. 
For who. can tell what sudden privacies 
Were sought and found, amid the hue and cry 
Of scholars furloughed from their tasks, and let 
Into this Oreads' fended Paradise, 

195 As chapels in the city's thoroughfares, 

Whither gaunt Labor slips to wipe his brow, 
And meditate a moment on Heaven's rest. 
Judge with what sweet surprises Nature spoke 
To each apart, lifting her lovely shows 

200 To spiritual lessons pointed home. 

And as through dreams in watches of the night, 
So through all creatures in their form and ways 
Some mystic hint accosts the vigilant. 
Not clearly voiced, but waking a new sense 

205 Inviting to new knowledge, one with old. 

Hark to that petulant chirp! what ails the war- 
bler? 
Mark his capricious ways to draw the eye. 
Now soar again. What wilt thou, restless bird, 
Seeking in that chaste blue a bluer light, 

210 Thirsting in that pure for a purer sky ? 

And presently the sky is changed; O World! 
What pictures and what harmonies are thine ! 

paper, The Subjective of It, published in The Atlantic Monthly 
for December, 1858. In that paper he speaks of the procession 
of the pines. 



THE ADIRONDACS. 427 

The clouds are rich and dark, the air serene, 
So like the soul of me, what if 't were me? 

215 A melancholy better than all mirth. 

Conies the sweet sadness at the retrospect, 
Or at the foresight of obscurer years? 
Like yon slow-sailing cloudy promontory. 
Whereon the purple iris dwells in beauty 

220 Superior to all its gaudy skirts. 

And, that no day of life may lack romance, 
The spiritual stars rise nightly, shedding down 
A private beam into each several heart. 
Daily the bending skies solicit man, 

225 The seasons chariot him from this exile. 

The rainbow hours bedeck his glowing chair. 
The storm-winds urge the heavy weeks along, 
Suns haste to set, that so remoter lights 
Beckon the wanderer to his vaster home. 

230 With a vermilion pencil mark the day 
W^hen of our little fleet three cruising skiffs 
Entering Big Tupper, bound for the foaming Falls 
Of loud Bog River, suddenly confront 
Two of our mates returning with swift oars. 

235 One held a printed journal waving high 
Caught from a late-arriving traveller. 
Big with great news, and shouted the report 
For which the world had waited, now firm fact, 
Of the wire-cable laid beneath the sea, 

240 And landed on our coast, and pulsating 
With ductile fii-e. Loud, exulting cries 
From boat to boat, and to the echoes round, 

239. It will be remembered that it was in August, 1858, when 
the first Atlantic Cable was laid and the tirst message trans- 
mitted, proving the feasibilitj' of the connection, though, the 
cable was imperfect, and a second one became necessary. 



428 EMERSON. 

Greet the glad miracle. Thought's new-found 

path 
Shall supplement henceforth all trodden ways, 

245 Match God's equator with a zone of art, 
And lift man's public action to a height 
Worthy the enormous cloud of witnesses, 
When linked hemispheres attest his deed. 
We have few moments in the longest life 

250 Of such delight and wonder as there grew, — 
Nor yet unsuited to that solitude : 
A burst of joy, as if we told the fact 
To ears intelligent; as if gray rock 
And cedar grove and cliff and lake should know 

255 This feat of wit, this triumph of mankind; 
As if we men were talking in a vein 
Of sympathy so large, that ours was theirs. 
And a prime end of the most subtle element 
Were fairly reached at last. Wake, echoing 
caves ! 

260 Bend nearer, faint day-moon! Yon thundertops, 
Let them hear well! 't is theirs as much as ours. 

A spasm throbbing through the pedestals 
Of Alp and Andes, isle and continent, 
Urging astonished Chaos with a thrill 

265 To be a brain, or servo the brain of man. 
The lightning has run masterless too long ; 
He must to school, and learn his verb and noun. 
And teach his nimbleness to earn his wage. 
Spelling with guided tongue man's messages 

270 Shot through the weltering pit of the salt sea. 
And yet I marked, even in the manly joy 
Of our great-hearted Doctor in his boat, 
(Perchance I erred,) a shade of discontent; 
Or was it for mankind a generous shame. 



THE ADIRONDACS. 429 

275 As of a luck not quite legitimate, 

Since fortune snatched from wit the lion's part? 
Was it a college pique of town and gown, 
As one within whose memory it burned 
That not academicians, but some lout, 

280 Found ten years since the Calif ornian gold? 
And now, again, a hungry company 
Of traders, led by coi'porate sons of trade. 
Perversely borrowing from the shop the tools 
Of science, not from the philosophers, 

285 Had won the brightest laurel of all time. 

'T was always thus, and will be ; hand and head 
Are ever rivals: but, though this be swift, 
The other slow, — this the Prometheus, 
And that the Jove, — yet, howsoever hid, 

290 It was from Jove the other stole his fire. 

And, without Jove, the good had never been. 
It is not Iroquois or cannibals, 
But ever the free race with front sublime, 
And these instructed by their wisest too, 

295 Who do the feat, and lift humanity. 

Let not him mourn who best entitled was, 
Nay, mourn not one: let him exult. 
Yea, plant the tree that bears best apples, plant, 
And water it with wine, nor watch askance 

300 Whether thy sons or strangers eat the fruit : 
Enough that mankind eat, and are refreshed. 

We flee away from cities, but we bring 
The best of cities with us, these learned classifiers, 
Men knowing what they seek, armed eyes of ex- 
perts. 
305 We praise the guide, we praise the foi'est life; 
But will we sacrifice our dear-bought lore 
Of books and arts and trained experiment, 



430 EMERSON. 

Ov count the Sioux a match for Agassiz? 

Oh no, not we ! Witness the shout that shook 

310 Wild Tapper Lake; witness the mute all-hail 
The joyful traveller gives, when on the verge 
Of craggy Indian wilderness he hears 
From a log-cabin stream Beethoven's notes 
On the piano, played with master's hand. 

315 " Well done ! " he cries: " the bear is kept at bay, 
The lynx, the rattlesnake, the flood, the fire; 
All the fierce enemies, ague, hunger, cold, 
This thin spruce roof, this clayed log-wall, 
This wild plantation will suffice to chase. 

320 Now speed the gay celerities of art, 
What in the desert was impossible 
Within four walls is possible again, — 
Culture and libraries, mysteries of skill, 
Traditioned fame of masters, eager strife 

325 Of keen competing youths, joined or alone 
To outdo each other and extort applause. 
Mind wakes a new-born giant from her sleep. 
Twirl the old wheels ! Time takes fresh start again, 
On for a thousand years of genius more." 

330 The holidays were fruitful, but must end; 

One August evening had a cooler breath ; 

Into each mind intruding duties crept; 

Under the cinders burned the fires of home; 

Nay, letters found us in our paradise; 
335 So in the gladness of the new event 

AVe struck our camp, and left the happy hills. 

The fortunate star that rose on us sank not; 

The prodigal sunshine rested on the land, 

The rivers gambolled onward to the sea, 
340 And Nature the inscrutable and mute, 

Permitted on her infinite repose 



THE TITMOUSE. 431 

Almost a smile to steal to cheer lier sons, 
As if one riddle of the Sphinx were guessed. 



n. 

THE TITMOUSE. 

You shall not be overbold 
When you deal with arctic cold, 
As late I found my lukewarm blood 
Chilled wading in the snow-choked wood. 
5 How should I fight? my foeman fine 
Has million arms to one of mine: 
East, west, for aid I looked in vain, 
East, west, north, south, are his domain. 
Miles off, three dangerous miles, is home ; 
lo Must borrow his winds who there would come. 
Up and away for life ! be fleet! — 
The frost-king ties my fumbling feet. 
Sings in my ears, my hands are stones, 
Curdles the blood to the marble bones, 

343. The Sphinx in classical mythology was a monster having 
a human head, a lion's body, and sometimes fabled as winged. 
It used to propose a question to the Thebans and murder all who 
could not guess it. The riddle was, — 

" What goes on four feet, on two feet, and three, 
But the more feet it goes on the weaker it be ? " 

Edipus gave the answer that it was man, going on four feet as 
a child, and when old using a staff which made the third foot. 
But the Sphinx's riddle in the 6ld poetry and in the serious 
modern acceptation is nothing less than the whole problena of 
human life. 



432 EMERSON. 

15 Tugs at the heart-strings, numhs the sense, 
And hems in life with narrowing fence. 
Well, in this broad bed lie and sleep, 
The punctual stars will vigil keep, 
Embalmed by purifying cold, 

20 The winds shall sing their dead-march old, 
The snow is no ignoble shroud, 
The moon thy mourner, and the cloud. 

Softly, — but this way fate was pointing, 
'T was coming fast to such anointing, 

25 When piped a tiny voice hard by, 
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
Chic-chicadeedee ! saucy note 
Out of sound heart and merry throat. 
As if it said, " Good day, good sir ! 

30 Fine afternoon, old passenger! 
Happy to meet you in these places, 
Where January brings few faces." 

This poet, though he live apart. 
Moved by his hospitable heart, 

35 Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort. 
To do the honors of his court. 
As fits a feathered lord of land ; 
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand. 
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 

40 Prints his small impress on the snow, 
Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 
Head downward, clinging to the spray. 

Here was this atom in full breath. 
Hurling defiance at vast death; 
45 This scrap of valor just for play 

Fronts the north-wind in waistcoat gray, 







THE TITMOUSE. 433 

As if to shame my weak behavior ; 

I greeted loud my little saviour, 

* ' You pet ! what dost here ? and what for ? 
50 la these woods, thy small Labrador, 

At this pinch, wee San Salvador! 

What fire burns in that little chest 

So frolic, stout, and self-possest ? 

Henceforth I wear no stripe but thine ; 
55 Ashes and jet all hues outshine. 

Why are not diamonds black and gray, 

To ape thy dare-devil array? 

And I affirm, the spacious North 

Exists to draw thy virtue forth. 
60 I think no virtue goes with size ; 

The reason of all cowardice 

Is, that men are overgrown. 

And, to be valiant, must come down 

To the titmouse dimension." 

65 'T is good-will makes intelligence, 
And I began to catch the sense 
Of my bird's song : " Live out of doors 
In the great woods, on pi-aii-ie floors. 
I dine in the sun; when he sinks in the sea, 

70 I too have a hole in a hollow tree; 
And I like less when Summer beats 
With stifling beams on these retreats. 
Than noontide twilights which snow makes 
With tempest of the blinding flakes. 

75 For well the soul, if stout within. 
Can arm impregnably the skin; 
And polar frost my frame defied. 
Made of the air that blows outside." 

78. The titmouse's frame made of the outer air to his fancy — 
so light, free, and strong as it is — can well defy polar frost. 



434 EMERSON. 

With glad remembrance of my debt, 
80 I homeward turn; farewell, my pet! 
When hei'e again thy pilgrim comes, 
He shall bring store of seeds and crumbs. 
Doubt not, so long as earth has bread, 
Thou first and foremost shalt be fed; 
85 The Providence that is most large 

Takes hearts like thine in special charge, 
Helps who for their own need are strong, 
And the sky dotes on cheerful song. 
Henceforth I prize thy wiry chant 
' 90 O'er all that mass and minster vaunt; 
For men mis-hear thy call in sjiring, 
As 't would accost some frivolous wing. 
Crying out of the hazel copse, Phe-be ! 
And, in winter, Chic-a-dee-dee ! 
95 I think old Caesar must have heard 
In northern Gaul my dauntless bird, 
And, echoed in some frosty wold, 
Borrowed thy battle-numbers bold. 
And I will write our annals new, 
100 And thank thee for a better clew, 

I, who dreamed not when I came here 
To find the antidote of fear. 
Now hear thee say in Roman key, 
Pcean ! Veni, vidi, vici, 

104. Plutarch in his Life of Julius Ccesar, relates that, after 
Cassar's victory over Pharn aces at Zela in Asia Minor, "when 
he gave a friend of his at Rome an account of this action, to ex- 
press the promptness and rapidity of it, he used three words, I 
came, saw, and conquered, which in Latin having all the same 
cadence, carry with them a very suitable air of brevity." 



MONADNOC. 435 

in. 

MONADNOC. 

Thousand minstrels woke within me, 
" Our music 's in the hills; " — 

Gayest pictures rose to win me, 
Leopard-colored rills. 
5 " Up! — If thou knew'st who calls 

To twilight parks of beech and pine. 

High over the river intervals, 

Above the ploughman's highest line, 

Over the owner's farthest walls ! 
lo Up ! where the airy citadel 

O'erlooks the surging landscape's swell! 

Let not unto the stones the Day 

Her lily and rose, her sea and land display; 

Read the celestial sign ! 
15 Lo! the south answers to the north; 

Bookworm, break this sloth urbane; 

A greater spirit bids thee forth 

Than the gray dreams which thee detain. 

10. Any one who has stood upon the summit of Monadnoc, 
in Cheshire County, southern New Hampshire, would feel the 
significance not only of the surging landscape's swell, but of 
the airy citadel, since the crest of the mountain is a pinnacle of 
stone, built up almost like a fortress. 

12. That is, let not the insensate stones be the only recipients 
of the splendors which the light reveals. 

16. The use of urbane is a recall of the first meaning of the 
word which is more distinct in urban. As a city (urbs) gives 
politeness, urbanity, and the country (rus) gives rusticity, here 
the sloth urbane is the indolence as regards nature which clings 
to a person too confined within city limits of interest. 



136 EMERSON. 

Mark how the climbing Oreads 
20 Beckon thee to their arcades I 

Youth, for a moment free as they, 

Teach thy feet to feel the ground, 

Ere yet arrives the wintry day 

When Time thy feet has bound. 
25 Take the bounty of thy birth, 

Taste the lordship of the earth." 

I heard, and I obeyed, — 
Assured that he who made the claim, 
Well known, but loving not a name, 
30 Was not to be gainsaid. 

Ere yet the summoning voice was still, 

I turned to Cheshire's haughty hill. 

From the fixed cone the cloud-rack flowed 

Like ample banner flung abroad 
35 To all the dwellers in the plains 

Round about, a hundred miles, 

With salutation to the sea, and to the bordering 
isles. 

In his own loom's garment dressed, 

By his proper bounty blessed, 
40 Fast abides this constant giver. 

Pouring many a cheerful river; 

To far eyes, an aerial isle 

Unploughed, which finer spirits pile, 

Which morn and crimson evening paint 
45 For bard, for lover, and for saint ; 

29. Though we give it no name, the longhig for the free coun- 
try and the mountain height is no stranger to men's hearts. 

33. See note to p. 167, 1. 952. 

43. The rocky summit is the base upon which masses of clouds 
are piled high. 



MONADNOC. 437 

The people's pride, the country's core, 

Inspirer, prophet evermore ; 

Pillar which God aloft had set 

So that men might it not forget; 
50 It should be their life's ornament, 

And mix itself with each event ; 

Gauge and calendar and dial, 

Weatherglass and chemic phial, 

Garden of berries, perch of birds, 
55 Pasture of pool-haunting herds, 

Graced by each change of sum untold, 

Earth-baking heat, stone-cleaving cold. 

The Titan heeds his sky-affairs. 
Rich rents and wide alliance shares ; 

60 Mysteries of color daily laid 
By the sun in light and shade; 
And sweet varieties of chance, 
And the mystic seasons' dance; 
And thief-like step of liberal hours 

65 Thawing snow-drift into flowers. 

Oh, wondrous craft of plant and stone 
By eldest science wrought and shown ! 
" Happy," I said, " whose home is here ! 
Fair fortunes to the mountaineer ! 

70 Boon Nature to his poorest shed 

Has royal pleasure-grounds outspread." 
Intent, I searched the region round, 
And in low hut my monarch found : — 
Woe is me for my hope's downfall ! 

7$ Is yonder squalid peasant all 

That this proud nursery could breed 
For God's vicegerency and stead ? 

70. Compare Milton's Nature boon, in Paradise Lost, iv. 242. 



438 EMERSON. 

Time out of mind, this forge of ores; 

Quarry of spars in mountain pores; 
80 Old cradle, hunting-ground, and bier 

Of wolf and otter, bear and deer ; 

Well-built abode of many a race ; 

Tower of observance searching space ; 

Factory of river and of rain ; 
85 Link in the alps' globe-girding chain; 

By million changes skilled to tell 

What in the Eternal standeth well, 

And what obedient Nature can ; — 

Is this colossal talisman 
90 Kindly to plant, and blood, and kind, 

But speechless to the master's mind? 

I thought to find the patriots 

In whom the stock of freedom roots ; 

To myself I oft recount 
95 Tales of many a famous mount, — 

Wales, Scotland, Uri, Hungary's dells; 

Bards, Roys, Scanderbegs, and Tells. 

Here Nature shall condense her powers, 

Her music, and her meteors, 
100 And lifting man to the blue deep 

Where stars their perfect courses keep, 

Like wise preceptor, lure his eye 

To sound the science of the sky. 

And carry learning to its height 
105 Of untried power and sane delight : 

The Indian cheer, the frosty skies, 

Rear purer wits, inventive eyes, — 

96. The places of this line have theii- heroes in the next, bards 
in Wales, Rob Eoy in Scotland, William Tell in Uri; Scander- 
beg (Iskander-beg, i. e., Alexander the Great) is the name given 
by the Tnrks to the Robin Hood of Epirus, George Castriota, 
1414-14G7. 



MONADNOC. 439 

Eyes that frame cities where none be, 

And hands that stablish what these see ; 
no And by the moral of his place 

Hint summits of heroic grace; 

Man in these crags a fastness find 

To fight poUution of the mind; 

In the wide thaw and ooze of wrong, 
115 Adhere like this foundation strong. 

The insanity of towns to stem 

With simpleness for stratagem. 

But if the brave old mould is broke, 

And end in churls the mountain folk, 
120 In tavern cheer and tavern joke, 

Sink, O mountain, in the swamp! 

Hide in thy skies, O sovereign lamp! 

Perish like leaves, the highland breed ; 

No sii'e survive, no son succeed! 

125 Soft! let not the offended muse 

Toil's hard hap with scorn accuse. 

Many hamlets sought I then, 

Many farms of mountain men. 

Rallying round a parish steeple 
130 Nestle warm the highland people, 

Coarse and boisterous, yet mild, 

Strong as giant, slow as child. 

Sweat and season are their arts, 

Their talismans are ploughs and carts; 
135 And well the youngest can command 

Honey from the frozen land; 

With clover heads the swamp adorn, 

Change the running sand to corn ; 

For wolf and fox bring lowing herds, 
140 And for cold mosses, cream and curds; 

Weave wood to canisters and mats; 

Drain sweet maple juice in vats. 



440 EMERSON. 

No bird is safe that cuts the air 

From their rifle or their snare; 
145 No fish, in river or in lake, 

But their long hands it thence will take; 

Whilst the country's flinty face. 

Like wax, their fashioning skill betrays, 

To fill the hollows, sink the hills, 
150 Bridge gulfs, drain swamps, build dams and mills, 

And fit the bleak and howling waste 

For homes of virtue, sense, and taste. 

The World-soul knows his own affair, 

Forelooking, when he would prepare 
1$^ For the next ages, men of mould 

Well embodied, well ensouled, 

He cools the present's fiery glow, 

Sets the life-jiulse strong but slow : 

Bitter winds and fasts austere 
160 His quarantines and grottos, where 

He slowly cures decrepit flesh. 

And brings it infantile and fresh. 

Toil and tempest are the toys 

And games to breathe his stalwart boys: 
165 They bide their time, and well can prove, 

If need were, their line from Jove; 

Of the same stuff, and so allayed, 

As that whereof the sun is made, 

And of the fibre, quick and strong, 
170 Whose throbs are love, whose thrills are song. 

Now in sordid weeds they sleep, 
In dulness now their secret keep ; 
Yet, will you learn our ancient speech, 
These the masters who can teach. 

153. See Emerson's poem of the World-Soul. 



MONADNOC. 441 

175 Fourscore or a hundred words 
All their vocal muse affords ; 
But they turn them in a fashion 
Past clerks' or statesmen's art or passion. 
I can spare the college bell, 

180 And the learned lecture, well ; 
Spare the clergy and libraries, 
Institutes and dictionaries, 
For what hardy Saxon root 
Thrives here, unvalued, underfoot. 

185 Rude poets of the tavern hearth, 
Squandering your unquoted mirth, 
AVhich keejjs the ground, and never soars, 
While Jake retorts, and Reuben roars: 
Scoff of yeoman strong and stark, 

190 Goes like bullet to its mark; 
While the solid curse and jeer 
Never baulk the waiting ear. 

On the summit as I stood, 
O'er the floor of plain and flood 
195 Seemed to me, the towering hill 
AVas not altogether still, 
But a quiet sense conveyed ; 
If I err not, thus it said: — 

175. " The vocabulary of a rich and long-cultivated language 
like the English may be roughly estimated at about one hun- 
dred thousand words (although this excludes a great deal which, 
if 'English' were understood in its widest sense, would have to 
be counted in); but thirty thousand is a very large estimate for 
the number ever used, in writing or speaking, by a well-educated 
man ; three to five thousand, it has been caref ullj' estimated, 
cover the ordinary need of cultivated intercourse; and the num- 
ber acquired by persons of lowest training and narrowest in- 
formation is considerably less than this." The Life and Growth 
of LaiKjumje, by W. D. Whitney, f. 26. 



442 EMERSON. 

"Many feet in summer seek, 
200 Oft, my far-appearing peak; 

In the dreaded winter time, 

None save dappling sliadows climb, 

Under clouds, my lonely head, 

Old as the sun, old almost as the shade. 
205 And comest thou 

To see strange forest and new snow, 

And tread uplifted land? 

And leavest thou thy lowland race, 

Here amid clouds to stand? 
210 And wouldst be my companion, 

Where I gaze, and still shall gaze, 

Through hoarding nights and spending days, 

When forests fall, and man is gone, 

Over tribes and over times, 
215 At the burning Lyre, 

Neai'ing me, 

With its stars of northern fire, 

In many a thousand years ? 

" Ah! welcome, if thou bring 
220 My secret in thy brain ; 

To mountain-top may Muse's wing 

With good allowance strain. 

Gentle pilgrim, if thou know 

The gamut old of Pan, 
225 And how the hills began. 

The frank blessings of the hill 

Fall on thee, as fall they will. 

" Let him heed who can and will; 
Enchantment fixed me here 
230 To stand the hurts of time, until 
In mightier chant I disappear. 



MONADNOC. 443 

" If thou trowest 

How the chemic eddies play, 

Pole to pole, and what they say ; 
235 And that these gray crags 

Not on crags are hung, 

But beads are of a rosary ' 

On prayer and music strung; 

And, credulous, through the granite seeming, 
240 Seest the smile of Reason beaming ; — 

Can thy style-discerning eye 

The hidden-working Builder spy, 

Who builds, yet makes no chips, no din. 

With hammer soft as snowflake's flight; — 
245 Knowest thou this ? 

O pilgrim, wandering not amiss I 

Already my rocks lie light, 

And soon my cone will spin. 

" For the world was built in order, 

250 And the atoms march in tune ; 

Rhyme the pipe, and Time the warder, 
The sun obeys them, and the moon. 
Orb and atom forth they prance, 
AVhen they hear from far the rune, 

255 None so backward in the troop, 
When the music and the dance 
Reach his place and circumstance. 
But knows the sun-creating sound. 
And, though a pyramid, will bound. 

260 " Monadnoc is a mountain strong. 
Tall and good my kind among ; 
But well I know, no mountain can, 
Zion or Meru, measure with man. 

263. Meru is a fabulous mountain in the centre of the world, 
eighty thousand leagues high, the abode of Vishnu, and a per- 



444 EMERSON. 

For it is on zodiacs writ, 
265 Adamant is soft to wit: 

And when the greater comes again 
With my secret in his brain, 
I shall pass, as glides my shadow 
Daily over hill and meadow. 

270 " Through all time, in light, in gloom. 

Well I hear the approaching feet 

On the flinty pathway beat 

Of him that cometh, and shall come ; 

Of him who shall as lightly bear 
275 My daily load of woods and streams. 

As doth this round sky-cleaving boat 

Which never strains its rocky beams ; 

Whose timbers, as they silent float, 

Alps and Caucasus uprear, 
280 And the long Alleghanies here, 

And all town-sprinkled lands that be. 

Sailing through stars with all their history. 

" Every morn I lift my head, 

See New England underspread, 
285 South from Saint Lawrence to the Sound 

From Katskill east to the sea-bound. 

Anchored fast for many an age, 

I await the bard and sage. 

Who, in large thoughts, like fair pearl-seed, 
290 Shall string Monadnoc like a bead. 

feet paradise. It may be termed the Hindu Olympus. These 
lines are in the spirit of the German philosopher Hegel's dictum, 
that one thought of man outweighed all nature. 

276. In this bold figure the earth, with its mountains and 
town-sprinkled lands, is made the image of the lofty mind which 
dwells among the higher thoughts, and carries the mountain in 
its hands as a very little thing. 



MONADNOC. 445 

Comes that cheerful troubadour, 

This mound shall throb his face before, 

As when, with inward fires and pain, 

It rose a bubble from the plain. 
295 When he cometh, I shall shed, 

From this wellspring in my head. 

Fountain-drop of sjiicier worth 

Than all vintage of the earth. 

There 's fruit upon my barren soil 
300 Costlier far than wine or oil. 

There 's a berry blue and gold, — 

Autumn-ripe, its juices hold 

Sparta's stoutness, Bethlehem's heart, 

Asia's rancor, Athens' art, 
305 Slowsure Britain's secular might, 

And the German's inward sight. 

I will give my son to eat 

Best of Pan's immortal meat. 

Bread to eat, and juice to drain, 
310 So the coinage of his brain 

Shall not be forms of stars, but stars. 

Nor pictures pale, but Jove and Mars. 

He comes, but not of that race bred 

Who daily climb my specular head. 
315 Oft as morning wreathes my scarf. 

Fled the last plumule of the Dark, 

Pants up hither the spruce clerk 

From South Cove and City Wharf. 

I take him up my rugged sides, 
320 Half-repentant, scant of breath, — 

Bead-eyes my granite chaos show, 

315. The scarf is the vesture of the mountain, and the light 
of the iTKiruing, revealing it, may be said to wind it about the 
mountain. 

321. I show the little clerk with his bead-eyes my granite 
chaos and the glittering quartz which is my midsummer snow. 



446 EMERSON. 

And my midsummer snow; 

Open the daunting map beneath, — 

All his county, sea and land, 
325 Dwarfed to measure of his hand; 

His day's ride is a furlong space, 

His city-tops a glimmering haze. 

I plant his eyes on the sky-hoop bounding : 

' See there the grim gray rounding 
330 Of the bullet of the earth 

Whereon ye sail, 

Tumbling steep 

In the uncontinented deep.' 

He looks on that, and he turns pale. 
335 'Tis even so, this treacherous kite. 

Farm-furrowed, town-incrusted sphere. 

Thoughtless of its anxious freight, 

Plunges eyeless on forever ; 

And he, poor parasite, 
340 Coo23ed in a ship he cannot steer, — 

Who is the captain he knows not, 

Poi't or pilot trows not, — 

Risk or ruin he must share. 

I scowl on him with my cloud, 
345 With my north wind chill his blood ; 

I lame him, clattering down the rocks ; 

And to live he is in fear. 

Then, at last, I let him down 

Once more into his dapper town, 

329. The small-souled man whom the mountain is jeering is 
bidden scan the horizon and see the immensity of the universe 
in which his little earth is rolling. The petty soul trem.blee be- 
fore this vastness as the looked for mighty one was to compre- 
hend and weigh it all in his balances. The contrast is between 
the blind animal-man, overpowered by nature, and the god-like 
Boul-mau serenely ruling nature. 



MONADNOC. 447 

350 To chatter, frightened, to his clan, 
And forget me if he can." 

As in the old poetic fame 

The gods are blind and lame. 

And the simular despite 
355 Betrays the more abounding might, 

So call not waste that barren cone 

Above the floral zone. 

Where forests starve : 

It is pure use ; — 
360 What sheaves like those which here we glean and 
bind 

Of a celestial Ceres and the Muse ? 

Ages are thy days, 

Thou grand affirmer of the present tense, 

And type of permanence ! 
365 Firm ensign of the fatal Being, 

Amid these coward shapes of joy and grief, 

That will not bide the seeing ! 

Hither we bring 

Our insect miseries to thy rocks ; 
370 And the whole flight, with folded wing. 

Vanish, and end their murmuring, — 

Vanish beside these dedicated blocks, 

AVhich who can tell what mason laid ? 

Spoils of a front none need restore, 
375 Replacing frieze and architrave; — 

Yet flowers each stone rosette and metope brave ; 

352. Fame, common stoiy. 

374. In remote allusion to the removal to England of the Elgin 
marbles from the Parthenon at Athens; there was much discus- 
sion as to the right of England to these spoils, which were granted 
by the Turkish government, and a murmur in Greece after in- 
dependence was obtained, that they should be restored. 



448 EMERSON. 

Still is the haughty pile erect 
Of the old building Intellect. 

Complement of human kind, 
380 Having us at vantage still, 

Our sumptuous indigence, 

O barren mound, thy plenties fill ! 

We fool and prate ; 

Thou art silent and sedate. 
385 To myriad kinds and times one sense 

The constant mountain doth dispense ; 

Shedding on all its snows and leaves. 

One joy it joys, one grief it grieves. 

Thou seest, O watchman tall, 
390 Our towns and races grow and fall, 

And imagest the stable good 

In shifting form the formless mind. 

And though the substance us elude. 

We in thee the shadow find. 
395 Thou, in our astronomy 

An opaker star. 

Seen haply from afar. 

Above the horizon's hoop, 

A moment, by the railway troop, 
400 As o'er some bolder height they speed, — 

By circumspect ambition, 

By errant gain, 

By f casters and the frivolous, — 

Recallest us, 
405 And makest sane. 

393. The mountain is but the image of tk« stable good : that 
good is the invisible substance, of which the mountain is the 
visible shadow. The good is ever shifting to us, but the type 
of good is lixed. 

401. Circumspect ambition, errant, i. e., travellinff (jnin, feast- 
ers, iLudfrieolous, — these are all part of the railway troop. 



MONADNOC. 449 

Mute orator ! well skilled to plead, 
And send conviction without phrase, 
Thou dost succor and remede 
The shortness of our days, 
410 And promise, on thy Founder's truth, 
Long morrow to this mortal youth. 
29 



APPENDIX. 



[Lowell's poem on Agassiz presents many aspects 
of that remarkable man. The stimukis which he gave 
in this coimtry to scientific research was followed by 
results in other departments of human learning, for the 
method employed in scientific study finds an applica- 
tion in history and literature also. In the study of 
literature the first lesson is in the power of seeing 
what lies before the student on the printed page, and 
the following sketch, which was published shortly after 
Agassiz's death, is given here, both because it is so 
entertaining an account of a student's experience, and 
because it points so clearly to the secret of aU suc- 
cess in study, both of science and of literature.] 

IN THE LABORATORY WITH AGASSIZ. 

BY A FORMER PUPIL. 

It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the labora- 
tor}' of Professor Agassiz, and told him I had enrolled my 
name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. 
He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my 
antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterwards pro- 
posed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, 
whether I wished to stud}^ any special branch. To the latter I 
replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all depart- 
ments of zoology, I purposed to devote myself specially to in- 
sects. 



452 APPENDIX. 

" When do you wish to begin ? " he asked. 

"Now," I replied. 

This seemed to please him, and with an energetic "Very 
well," he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yel- 
low alcohol. 

"Take this fish" said he, "and look at it; we call it a 
Haemulon; by and b}' I will ask what you have seen." 

With that he left me, but in a moment returned with explicit 
instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. 

" No man is fit to be a naturalist," said he, " who does not 
know how to take care of specimens." 

I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally 
moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking 
care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days 
of ground glass stoppers, and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; 
all the old students will recall the huge, neckless glass bottles 
with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects 
and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner 
science than ichthyology, but the example of the professor who 
had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce 
the fish was infectious; and though this alcohol had " a very 
ancient and fish-like smell," I really dared not show any aver- 
sion within these sacred precincts, and treated the alcohol as 
though it were pure water. Still I was conscious of a passing 
feeling of disappointment, for gazing at a fish did not commend 
itself to an ardent entomologist. M}" friends at home, too, were 
annoyed, when they discovered that no amount of eau de 
cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a 
shadow. 

In ten minutes 1 had seen all that could be seen in that fish, 
and started in search of the professor, who had, however, left the 
museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the 
odd animals stored in the upper apartment, my specimen was 
dr^' all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate 
the beast from a fainting-fit, and looked with anxiety for a 
return of the normal, sloppy appearance. This little excitement 
over, nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at 
my mute companion. Half an hour passed, — an hour, — an- 
other hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over 
and around; looked it in the face, — ghastly ; from behind, be- 
neath, above, sideways, at a three quarters' view, — just as 



APPENDIX. 453 

ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that 
lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was care- 
fully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free. 

On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at 
the museum, but had gone and would not return for several 
hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by 
continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, 
and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might 
not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were in- 
terdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish ; it seemed 
a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel 
how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the 
different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. 
At last a happy thought struck me — I would draw the fish; 
and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the 
creature. Just then the professor returned. 

" That is right," said he; " a pencil is one of the best of eyes. 
I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and 
your bottle corked." 

With these encouraging words, he added, — 

"Well, what is it like V " 

He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure 
of parts whose names were still unknown to me : the fringed 
gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, 
fleshy lips, and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fins, 
and forked tail; the compresssd and arched body. When I had 
finished, he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air 
of disappointment, — 

" You have not looked verj' carefully ; why," he continued, 
more earnestly, " you have n't even seen one of the most con- 
spicuous features of the animal, which is as plaiuly before your 
eyes as the fish itself; look again, look again! " and he left me 
to my misery. 

I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched 
fish? But now I set myself to my task with a will, and dis- 
covered one new thing after another, until I saw how just the 
professor's criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly, 
and when, toward its close, the professor inquired, — 

" Do j'ou see it j^et ? " 

" No," I replied, " I am certain I do not, but I see how little 
I saw before." 



454 APPENDIX. 

"That is next best," said he, earnestly, "but I won't hear 
you now ; put away your fish and go home ; perhaps you will be 
ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine 
you before you look at the tish." 

This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all 
night, studying, without the object before me, what this un- 
known but most visible feature might be, but also, without re- 
viewing my new discoveries, I must give an exact account of 
them the next day. I had a bad memory; so I walked home by 
Charles River in a distracted state, with my two perplexities. 

The cordial greeting from the professor the next morning 
was reassuring; here was a man who seemed to be quite as 
anxious as I, that I should see for myself what he saw. 

"Do you perhaps mean," I asked, "that the fish has sym- 
metrical sides with paired organs V " 

His thoroughly pleased, " Of course, of course ! " repaid the 
wakeful hours of the previous night. After he had discoursed 
most happily and enthusiastically — as he always did — upon 
the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I should do 
next. 

" Oh, look at your fish! " he said, and left me again to my 
own devices. In a little more than an hour he returned and 
heard my new catalogue. 

"That is good, that is good! " he repeated; but that is not 
all; go on; " and so for three long days he placed that fish be- 
fore my ej'es, forbidding me to look at anything else, or to use 
any artificial aid. "Look, look, look," was his repeated in- 
junction. 

This was the best entomological lesson I ever had, — a lesson 
whose influence has extended to the details of every subsequent 
study; a legacy the professor has left to me, as he left it to 
many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, 
with which we cannot part. 

A year afterwards, some of us were amusing ourselves with 
chalking outlandish beasts upon the museum blackboard. We 
drew prancing star-fishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra- 
headed worms; stately crawfishes, standing on their tails, bear- 
ing aloft umbrellas; and grotesque fishes with gaping mouths 
and staring eyes. The professor came in shortlv after, and 
was as amused as any at our experiments. He looked at the 
fishes. 



APPENDIX. 455 

" Haemulons, eveiy one of them," he said; "Mr. 

drew them." 

True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing 
but Hajmulous. 

The fourth day, a second fish of the same group was placed 
beside the lirst, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances 
and differences between the two ; another and another followed, 
until the entire famil}' lay before me, and a whole legion of jars 
covered the table and surrounding shelves; the odor had be- 
come a pleasant perfume : and even now, the sight of an old, 
six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant memories! 

The whole group of Hiemulons was thus brought in review: 
and, whether engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, 
the preparation and examination of the bony frame-work, or 
the description of the various parts, Agassiz's training in the 
method of observing facts and their orderly arrangement was 
ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not to be content 
with them. 

" Facts are stupid things," he would say, " until brought 
into connection with some general lav*f." 

At the end of eight months, it was almost with reluctance 
that I left these friends and turned to insects : but what I had 
gained by this outside experience has been of greater value than 
years of later investigation iu my favorite groups. 



mmm 



ARY OF CONGRESS 



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